O N C E   M A R K E D

(A RILEY PAIGE MYSTERY—BOOK 19)

B L A K E   P I E R C E

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Jenna Graves, Alison Payne, Isla Rivers and Kari Blackhorse series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Stas Knyazev used under license from Shutterstock.com.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

PROLOGUE

Sunrise painted the horizon pink and orange as Linda Morris laced up her running shoes. A mist over Kitty Hawk beach blurred the edges of her world. She loved this solitude, a welcome change from her life's meticulous logic and precision as a software engineer in Raleigh’s Research Triangle Park. In this natural beauty of dawn, she could let her mind drift without the constraints of code and algorithms. This was a precious slice of time carved out for Linda alone, and she cherished it.

She took a deep breath, tasting the salty tang of ocean air, then pushed off into a steady jog along the shoreline. Each step along the damp sand was a confirmation that taking this vacation with Lucy was the right decision. They’d both been knee-deep in complex projects, their minds constantly whirring with data and deadlines. But here, in the early September stillness of the Outer Banks, work felt like a distant memory.

Lucy, her roommate, and a trusted colleague had agreed they needed this break—a chance to recharge before they dived back into the fray. Though Lucy preferred to indulge in sleep rather than join Linda’s morning excursions, they both enjoyed this brief escape from the hum of computers and the clatter of keyboards.

There was no resentment of Lucy’s absence on these runs, only an acknowledgment of their differences. In fact, running alone allowed Linda moments of introspection that she rarely afforded herself back in Raleigh, moments where the only expectation was the next breath, the next stride.

Their rented beachfront cottage was far behind Linda now, its weathered shingles and wraparound porch a stark contrast to the modern lines and glass of their shared apartment in Raleigh. Here, in the Outer Banks, the world seemed to breathe more deeply. An off-season quiet had settled over the landscape. The beaches were less trodden at this time of year, especially at such an early hour.

The morning mist began to lift as Linda’s feet imprinted each moment in time on the damp sand—footprints that would soon be claimed by the sea. It was the third day of their seaside vacation, and Linda found herself easily falling into a rhythm with the ebb and flow of the waves. These solitary runs had become her sanctuary, a space where her mind could wander without walls, free from the confines of code and logic.

The beach stretched out before her, vast and empty, the bordering sea oats swaying gently in the morning breeze. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries piercing yet oddly harmonious against the steady crash of waves—a natural symphony for an audience of one. It was moments like these, without the clutter of any other human presence, that allowed Linda to truly breathe, to fully experience the simple act of existing beside the immense body of water that had drawn them here.

Her thoughts drifted to the project that had consumed her days before this vacation. The complexity of the algorithms she’d been developing was a puzzle she delighted in solving, a challenge that pushed her intellectual boundaries. It was a curious juxtaposition, this intermingling of her passion for technology and the primal allure of nature.

With the ocean’s vast expanse as her backdrop, she increased her pace, the steady rhythm of her running shoes on the sand syncing with the cadence of the waves. As the burn in her calves grew more pronounced, she welcomed the sensation. It was grounding, a physical anchor that tethered her to the present.

The exertion of her morning run finally cleared the lingering stress from Linda’s mind. The office back in Raleigh, with its incessant buzz of activity, faded like a distant memory in this place where the only sounds were the whisper of the wind and the rhythmic cadence of the ocean. Now, with the sea stretching out before her, the data points and coding sequences felt weightless, like flotsam on the tide, significant but momentarily set adrift.

As she ran, Linda envisioned possibilities for the rest of the day. Perhaps they would visit the Wright Brothers National Memorial, standing where history had been made under the wide Carolina blue sky. Or maybe they’d wind their way down to Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, its spiraling stripes a beacon on the Outer Banks. But for now, Linda was making no plans, contented to see where the day’s current would take them.

As she rounded a bend in the shoreline, she spotted a curious sight that gave her pause. She squinted, half-convinced that the haze was conjuring illusions.

But no, as improbable as it seemed, there was indeed someone sitting there. It was a figure lounging in a folding chair that was set on the sand. This seemed to be a deviation from the natural order of things—someone seeking the sunlight before it had even fully lighted the day.

Here was an unexpected puzzle. Who would choose to bask in the weak glow of an early morning sun? The quiet of dawn was not typically breached by beachgoers; this hour belonged to solitary joggers and the song of seabirds. Linda’s daily runs had never led her toward anything more startling than a washed-up jellyfish or horseshoe crab.

With a pace slowed by intrigue, she approached the figure, each step bringing into focus details that seemed increasingly out of place. It was undeniably a woman, one whose attire was oddly reminiscent of an earlier time. Curiosity burrowed into Linda’s thoughts.

She drew closer, her stride now tentative as she neared the enigmatic sunbather. The beach lay silent around them, save for the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. It was as if she’d stumbled onto a set where time had snagged on a forgotten fashion trend. This was no mere throwback but a full-fledged plunge into decades past, and Linda couldn’t help but marvel at the boldness of it.

The sunbather’s attire was a vivid splash of retro flair against the drab hues of dawn. High-cut, belted, the neon pink one-piece was like a siren call from a bygone era, clashing with the natural palette around her. Linda couldn’t help but think of her mother’s old photo albums, where similar swimsuits were all the rage, immortalized in snapshots of youthful summers before Linda had entered the world.

She could almost hear the vibrant beats of the eighties, a disco soundtrack to the tableau that presented itself. But beneath the initial amusement, a thread of unease began to weave itself through Linda’s consciousness. The woman remained absolutely motionless, like a statue paying homage to times long gone.

“Who are you?” Linda murmured under her breath, not expecting an answer but compelled by the mystery. It was odd, yes, but also strangely magnetic. Was she a local character known for her unusual habits, or was there a story behind this anachronism?

She knew Lucy would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, would have concocted wild tales to explain the woman’s presence. But right now, Linda faced the enigma alone, the warmth of shared secrets and camaraderie just out of reach.

Linda slowed to a hesitant walk as she neared the figure on the beach chair. For some reason, her mouth felt as dry as the salt in the air; her breath came out shallow and quick. As she drew nearer, her muscles tensed with apprehension.

The oversized sunglasses, even now concealing the woman’s eyes, seemed too large for the delicate early morning light, and she had short, dark hair that had been cut none too neatly. She wore a neon pink headband that matched her suit. It was a costume that demanded attention, yet here it lay unseen except by an audience of one. Linda wondered if the woman wore it for herself, to recapture a moment lost to time, or if there was another reason entirely for this theatrical display.

“Hello?” Linda said, her voice sounding intrusive in the stillness. There was no reply, no acknowledgement. She stepped closer, her heart rate not entirely due to her earlier exertion. “Excuse me, are you okay?” she tried again, louder this time.

The woman remained motionless, a mannequin of flesh and blood, if indeed she was either at this point. A shiver that had nothing to do with the chill air crept up Linda’s spine. This was not the response of someone enjoying the solitude of an empty beach. This was silence that filled the space with questions.

The woman’s skin, illuminated by the tentative sunlight, seemed devoid of life’s warm hues. The grayish pallor stood in stark contrast to the vibrant pink swimsuit. Instinctively, Linda scanned for the rise and fall of the woman’s chest, the subtle proof of life she hoped to find.

It wasn’t there. The woman in the chair was completely still; her skin a grotesque shade that no living person should be—it seemed like color had been drained from her, leaving behind a grey shell.

This wasn’t just a solitary beachgoer lost in thought or sleep. There was a finality to the woman’s posture, an eerie permanence that Linda wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

Linda's thoughts cast about for a rational explanation. Pranks were not uncommon among friends, even coworkers at her company might have indulged in the odd office jest—but this?

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” she murmured to herself, though the lack of cameras or snickering onlookers made the theory crumble almost as soon as it formed. Maybe a mannequin from an avant-garde photo shoot was abandoned on the beach? That seemed more plausible, given the dramatic getup.

But no photographer was anywhere in sight. And as Linda stopped beside the lounging woman, the details betrayed the truth: the texture of her skin, her too-still hands resting on the chair arms, and the unnatural angle of her neck.

Realization hit like a gut punch. There was no denying the harsh reality now staring closely at her face. She could see open eyes behind those oversized sunglasses’ lenses, but no flicker of life behind them. No, this wasn’t a sunbather who had risen with dawn to greet day. The vacant beach—once a postcard image of serenity, had been transformed into the backdrop of a nightmare.

A scream pierced the air, Linda’s own—raw and primal. Her voice seemed foreign to her own ears, a stranger’s cry of terror echoing back from dunes and empty expanse of shore. Startled seagulls took flight. Their wings beat the air in a chaotic flurry, their cries adding to the sense of distress.

Linda lurched backward, her balance unsteady as her feet sank into the sand, soft and treacherous beneath her. She stumbled, arms flailing for purchase in the open air, desperate to escape the grisly scene before her. But there was nowhere to run from the truth that stared back at her with glassy, unseeing eyes.

The scream left a silence in its wake, filled only by the relentless crush of waves upon the shore. It was as if nature itself was attempting to cleanse the stain of death. As the echo of her own terror faded into nothingness, Linda knew with chilling clarity that her peaceful beach vacation was over.

CHAPTER ONE

The sun was on its descent as Riley Paige steered her FBI-issued black sedan away from Quantico. Another day at the Academy had come to an end, another day of teaching those who had been accepted into that very demanding training program.

She let out a slow breath, trying to leave behind the lectures about criminal minds along with the responsibilities of shaping future agents, focusing on the road ahead, the familiar highway that led home to Fredericksburg.

It had been two weeks since she’d taken action against Leo Dillard—two weeks since he’d left the Academy rather than face the consequences of his behavior toward her. The decision to report his advances had been necessary, and his sudden departure from the Academy was a relief.

But it doesn’t feel like it’s over, she thought.

There had always been something about Leo’s demeanor, the intensity in his gaze when he looked at her, that unsettled her deeply. The ease with which he wore his charm, the underlying darkness—it was a combination she had seen before in the eyes of those who took pleasure in destruction. But it had been his physical move on her that had pushed Riley into action—that moment in her office when he’d tried to kiss her.

Reporting him had been straightforward; it was the aftermath—the quiet, the absence… She knew the pattern well: once an immediate threat was gone, doubt often crept in, whispering what-ifs and might-have-beens. It was the same doubt that kept her awake some nights, pondering over cases long closed. Yet this was different; this was personal.

Riley’s thoughts still churned as she navigated off the interstate and through the turns toward her townhouse. She tried to dismiss the grim thoughts, but her intuition, sharpened through years of profiling, wasn’t easily silenced.

Something else was troubling her—a strange void in her life that teaching didn’t seem to fill.

Turning into the familiar parking area in front of the row of pleasant townhouses, Riley let out a sigh of relief. The sight of Bill Jeffreys’ car already there was a welcome sign. She parked beside it and stepped out into the warm September air.

Approaching the door, she inserted her key into the lock and then pushed the door open. From the kitchen, the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans announced that Gabriela was working her magic, the sizzling sounds promising a hearty meal to come.

Stepping over the threshold, Riley smiled when she heard Bill’s voice, measured and reassuring, punctuated by Jilly’s exasperated sighs. It was the sound of a familiar homework hour at the dining room table.

Of course, her eldest daughter wasn’t there with them now. April had already departed for her first year at Jefferson Bell University and had chosen to live on campus. Even though that was an important step, and even though the campus was right here in Fredericksburg, Riley couldn’t shake a sense of loss, the feeling of a chapter ending.

Shedding the weight of her day along with her jacket, Riley lingered in the entryway for a moment. The stresses of her day - the nagging thoughts of Leo Dillard and the relentless intensity of her work - all began to dissolve. As she moved toward the dining room, Riley was very grateful to be home. The contrast between all this and the sterile halls of the Academy was palpable and welcome.

“Hey Riley,” Bill said looking up from the spread of academic debris scattered on the big table in front of him and Jilly. “How was your day?”

Riley set her bag down with a soft thud and moved to join them, the day’s remnants of profiling theory and criminal psychology evaporating in the wake of this small family scene. Her hand found its way to Jilly’s hair, fingers threading through the dark curls in an affectionate ruffle.

“Just the usual routine,” she answered. “How’s the homework battle going?”

Jilly’s response was a performance unto itself; she slumped back in her chair, an artful groan escaping her lips. “Why do I need to know so much about algebra? When am I ever going to use this in real life?”

Riley chuckled, crossing her arms as she regarded her young charge.

“Already forgotten, have you?” she teased. “That time just a couple of weeks ago, when you and April became my unofficial consultants? You decoded those cryptic notes, and algebra was our Rosetta Stone. By solving for x, you found the coordinates where a dead body was buried.”

Her reminder was met with a momentary spark that acknowledged the adventure they’d shared. It was these instances, small victories and shared memories, that bridged the gap between their disparate worlds—her adopted daughter’s rough, tumultuous past as a troubled orphan, and Riley’s sometimes shadowed present.

Jilly returned to the pages, her exasperation giving way to a focused intensity. As the pencil in Jilly’s hand scribbled the final answer, Riley leaned over the array of algebra problems, each step meticulously executed, and felt a surge of pride for the young girl who had come to mean so much to her, and who had overcome such childhood adversity.

Her gaze met Bill’s across the table and a warmth spread through her, not just from the pride in Jilly’s resolve but from the knowledge that Bill supported her in every challenge they faced.

Soon, the textbook snapped shut, and Jilly’s triumphant exhale filled the room. “Finally! Can I go play my game now?”

“Nice work,” Bill affirmed, giving his approval.

“Go ahead,” Riley said, “but remember - dinner in an hour.”

Jilly’s response was a blur of motion as she sprang from her chair and bounded out of the room. Riley heard her clattering up the stairs, free from the day’s academic duties.

“So,” Bill began, leaning back in his chair, “how did today really go for you? And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ routine. You’ve got stuff on your mind.”

Riley sighed. “Is it that obvious?” She sat down across from him, tracing the wood grain of the table, her mind warring with the logic and emotion that had always dictated her life.

“To me? Always. You’ve been restless lately, and it’s not just because April’s away at college.”

“Restless...” Riley echoed, returning to the table, the weight of the word settling over her shoulders. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Riley, we’ll figure it out. Together,” Bill said. Their years of partnership, friendship that had grown into love had woven a powerful bond.

“Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice, stepping back from fieldwork,” she admitted. “I thought I needed distance, a break from all that … darkness, but now... Well, now I’m not so sure.”

“Uncertainty doesn’t suit you,” Bill remarked with a wry tilt of his head. “But, knowing you, you’ll confront it head-on when decision time comes.”

“Maybe,” she replied. “But you’re right. It’s not just about April.”

She glanced away for a moment, her eyes tracing the grain of the wood on the tabletop as if it could chart the course of her thoughts. Then she added, “I keep thinking about that case I worked on with Ann Marie Esmer a couple of weeks ago.”

“The consultant gig that turned into a full-blown investigation?” Bill asked, his tone light.

Riley nodded. “That’s just it. Working that case... it reminded me of what I’ve been missing,” she confessed. “The thrill of being in the field, the satisfaction of putting the pieces together, working with a partner...”

“So you really do miss working in the field,” Bill observed quietly, the statement neither question nor judgment—simply an open door for Riley to step through if she chose.

“I do,” Riley admitted, with an honesty that surprised even her. But she knew there was no one better to trust with these confessions than the man who had seen her at her most vulnerable. “More than I thought I would. There’s a part of me that’s been dormant, and that case...” She trailed off, lost for a moment in the recollection of adrenaline-fueled chases and mind-bending puzzles.

“And I miss working with you,” she acknowledged with a light laugh. “But Meredith has got you in charge of breaking in every rookie who is ready to take on fieldwork.”

“You said that you and Ann Marie got along fine this time.”

“That’s true,” Riley admitted. “I even miss working with Ann Marie. She took some getting used to, with that upbeat personality of hers, but we struck up a good rapport. But Ann Marie is permanently partnered with Grady Pickens now. And he’s exactly the right partner for her—seasoned, experienced, with all kinds of lessons to teach. I’m really not needed.”

Her voice held a finality, an attempt to convince herself as much as Bill.

Bill watched her from his seat, his expression unreadable. Silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and shared dreams.

“It’s foolish,” Riley mused, “to think I could go back to that life, even for a case here and there.”

“Or maybe it’s exactly what you need,” Bill suggested gently.

“Maybe,” she whispered, allowing herself the luxury of considering a future untethered from the choices of her past. A future where the thrill of the hunt could once again pulse through her veins.

“So what’s really holding you back?” Bill’s voice cut through her reverie, his question sharp and clear as the clink of ice against glass. “You’re one of the best agents the BAU has ever seen. If you wanted to get back in the field full-time, you know Chief Meredith would make it happen in a heartbeat.”

Riley shook her head, a cascade of dark hair brushing her shoulders. Her hands, usually so steady when profiling a suspect or assembling her weapon, now trembled slightly.

“It’s not that simple,” she murmured. “I have responsibilities here. My classes at the Academy, Jilly...” Her words trailed off, and she glanced toward the staircase where her daughter had disappeared moments ago.

She also remembered how that last case had led to a desperate chase through a cemetery to catch the killer and rescue his last intended victim. The aches and pains of the days that followed were a vivid reminder of the physical demands that sort of work job entailed.

“I’m not getting any younger, Bill. That last case with Ann Marie... it could have ended so much worse. I can’t keep chasing shadows into graveyards.”

“Except that it’s what you love,” Bill countered gently, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that always seemed to see right through her. “Riley, I’ve known you long enough to see when you’re not content. Teaching is important, and you’re damn good at it. But it’s not enough for you, is it?”

She gazed back at him. In his eyes, she found an unspoken conversation, one that spoke of years of shared struggles and triumphs.

He’s really a beautiful man, she thought.

With his face showing the signs of life’s stresses and his often unruly hair, Bill wasn’t slick movie-star handsome. But his strength and generosity almost glowed in Riley’s eyes, much more important than superficial glamour. She had been divorced from one man whose thoughts were only for himself, and had almost married another who hadn’t been able to deal with her life as an agent. Now, she was grateful to have passed those by and settled in with Bill. She wouldn’t want to face life without him.

“Then there’s us,” she said, “and what we planned for our future together. We’ve talked about retiring in about a year, settling down for a quiet life here.”

“That will still be out there for us,” he replied.

The silence in the room settled, heavy with words unsaid and choices unmade.

“Bill,” she admitted, “it feels like I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t see. Like there’s an undercurrent pulling at me, and I can’t tell if it’s going to drag me under or push me forward.”

Riley shook her head, the corners of her lips tilting down in a frown. “It’s everything—April, teaching, the itch for the field... It’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“You can’t ignore those feelings,” Bill said.

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the distance between them. It was a confession, the acknowledgment of a hunger she could not sate with routine and chalkboards. “But what am I supposed to do about it?”

It was then that the silence was broken by the insistent buzz of her phone. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out, her eyes widening slightly at the name flashing on the screen. Brent Meredith’s name blinked back at her, an omen or an opportunity—she wasn’t sure which.

“Speaking of the devil,” Riley said, a half-smile flickering as she showed the display to Bill. His expression was unreadable. With a steadying breath, she pressed the device to her ear.

“Paige here,” she answered, her voice calm despite the torrent of emotions roiling beneath the surface.

“Agent Paige, it’s Meredith.” The voice of the special agent in charge was all business, gravelly and succinct, cutting through the quiet of the townhouse like a knife through butter. “Are you available to consult on a case in the Outer Banks?”

The question hung there, suspended in the charged silence of anticipation.

Available? She wondered.

Could she really step back into that world, even if only to consult? Would this be a brief diversion or the beginning of a return to the field?

She felt Bill’s gaze on her, supportive as always. The answer was there, somewhere in the space between her heartbeat and her hesitation.

“Agent Paige?” Meredith’s voice crackled through the speakerphone again. 

Riley had to make an important decision right now.

CHAPTER TWO

“I’m teaching two classes, Chief Meredith,” Riley said, despite the sudden rush of possibilities swirling in her mind. “I can’t just—”

“Jerry Langham covered for you last time,” Meredith cut in. “He did well, didn’t he?”

She hesitated. Jerry had indeed stepped up previously to teach her class for her; there was no reason he couldn’t do so again. She glanced at Bill.

“Go,” he urged. “You need this.” It wasn’t that she required his permission, but the words were an affirmation of her options.

“Alright,” she conceded.

“Good,” Meredith said, sounding satisfied. “I’m emailing you the case files now. Review them as soon as you can. Special Agent Esmer will explain everything on your way. She’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Esmer?” Riley repeated in surprise. “Isn’t she still partnered with Agent Pickens?”

“Agent Pickens is...indisposed,” Meredith replied. “You’ll get the details from her.”

“And we’re going right now?”

“You’ll have to be on this case first thing in the morning. It’s about a five-hour drive. Best that you get there tonight to get a good start tomorrow.”

“Understood,” she replied. Her mind was already racing ahead, piecing together fragmented possibilities.

“Be safe, Agent Paige,” Meredith added before ending the call, leaving a silence that buzzed with unsaid words.

Bill squeezed her shoulder, and Riley offered him a tight smile. “Jerry can handle your classes.” Bill’s voice was practical and reassuring.

“Let’s hope he’s not miffed about the short notice,” Riley muttered as she dialed Jerry Langham’s number.

Her call was answered by a cheerful, “Langham here.”

“Jerry, it’s Riley. I need a favor.”

“Riley!” Jerry’s voice crackled through the receiver, warm and a bit amused. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She plunged into her request, the urgency clear in her tone.

“Again, so soon?” Jerry’s voice held a hint of amusement. “Sure, I can cover your classes for the next few days. What’s going on?”

“Meredith wants my input on a case in the Outer Banks,” Riley responded, her mind already ticking through the logistics of departure. “Thanks, Jerry. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Anything for you, Riley. Say no more, your classes are covered. Just bring me back some good stories, alright?” The line went dead.

There was no turning back now. The stillness of the evening was gone, replaced by a current of kinetic energy that seemed to spark through the room.

Riley turned and saw that Jilly was standing there looking at her curiously.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “I was in the hallway right upstairs and heard a voice talking loud on the phone, so I came on down. That was your boss, wasn’t it?”

“This is just another short trip,” Riley reassured her daughter. “A consulting gig, but Ann Marie is picking me up soon.”

Jilly bounced on the balls of her feet, excitement clear in the tilt of her smile. “You’re gonna catch the bad guys again, right, Mom?”

“Sure will try to help with that, honey,” Riley responded, her heart tugging at the sight of her daughter’s enthusiasm.

“Like a superhero,” Jilly declared, her admiration clear in her wide eyes.

Riley chuckled softly, touched by the comparison, though she felt anything but heroic. In those moments, she saw the world through Jilly’s resilient spirit—a world where right always triumphed, and darkness was just another shadow to outshine.

“Promise me you’ll be safe,” Jilly said, her youthful exuberance tempered with a hint of worry.

“I promise,” Riley vowed.

Then Gabriela appeared from the kitchen. She had obviously heard what was going on too.

“Hay que comer,” Gabriela insisted. “You must eat.”

Thrusting a box into Riley’s hands, she added with clear disapproval, “You haven’t even had your dinner.”

“Gracias,” Riley said, accepting the package. She’d learned long ago that arguing with Gabriela’s practicality was a fruitless endeavor.

“Be careful,” Gabriela added, her eyes betraying a glint of concern beneath her stoic exterior.

As the sound of a car horn sliced through the evening air outside, Riley gathered her essentials—badge, gun, notepad, tablet, and cell phone. Each item was a familiar touchstone, grounding her in the reality of her profession. She stooped to scoop up her go-bag, an old companion from countless cases before. It held the basics—clothes, toiletries, extra shoes—the tangible pieces of a life temporarily suspended for the call of a case.

Bill gave her a long, hard kiss, then stepped back to let her go. She knew he would be lonely tonight but that he’d take care of Jilly and her concerns. Gabriela would get Jilly off to school in the morning just as she always did.

Riley shouldered her bag, then her hand found Bill’s for a brief moment.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “And remember, it’s just consulting,” she added for both their sakes. But even as she said it, she felt the pulse of adrenaline in her veins.

He nodded, understanding perfectly. “Just take good care of yourself, for me,” he said.

As Riley turned away, her mind was already shifting gears into investigator mode. She stepped outside, and the door closed behind her with a soft click, sealing off the comforting hum of home.

Ann Marie was sitting in her car, engine running, so Riley hurried to join her.

“Hey,” Riley greeted the younger agent, sliding into the passenger seat. She put her bag on the floor and held the box in her lap. The click of the seatbelt was a definitive sound, a seal on her commitment to the case ahead.

Sniffing the air, Ann Marie inquired, “Food?”

“Of course, and Gabriela always packs enough for a small army.”

“Good, then we won’t have to make any stops,” the young agent said, heading the car on their way.

“Ann Marie, what’s going on with Grady?” Riley asked.

“Grady... he’s retiring. Early-onset Parkinson’s,” Ann Marie disclosed, her voice tinged with sadness.

“Damn,” Riley muttered, taken aback by the news. “That’s tough. I’ve always respected him.” Pickens had been among the best; his absence would leave a void not easily filled.

“He was an incredible partner, even in the short time we worked together. We were really starting to click as partners, you know?” Ann Marie’s voice cracked slightly.

Riley reached over, placing a comforting hand on Ann Marie’s arm. “It’s hard to find that a really good connection in our line of work,” she said softly.

“Riley, I wish...” Ann Marie started, then sighed, letting the sentence hang unfinished. “Never mind. It’s not practical.”

“What?” Riley asked.

Ann Marie’s voice softened. “I wish... I mean, it sounds selfish, but I really wish we could be partners, you and me. You know, permanently.” Her admission, candid and unexpected, sounded like a confession.

Riley turned to look at Ann Marie, whose eyes remained fixed on the street ahead.

“Ann Marie,” Riley began, her voice low, touched with the warmth of shared understanding, “you’re an incredible agent. You’ll find the right partner. But my life, it’s here and now, with teaching, with my family.” She felt the pull of two worlds, the echo of adrenaline that came with fieldwork, and the gentle tug of home. “This is just a temporary assignment.”

“I know,” Ann Marie muttered, then focused on her driving. The quiet hum of the engine and the steady blur of streetlights slipping past provided a backdrop to Riley’s thoughts. She recognized a familiar twinge of excitement stirring within her. She was back in the game, and her instincts were already kicking into high gear.

The city lights began to fade into the rearview mirror as Ann Marie navigated the car onto the open highway. Riley unfolded the neat package of foil-wrapped tacos Gabriela had hastily prepared. Handing one over to Ann Marie, she watched as her colleague took a bite.

“Mmm,” Ann Marie hummed appreciatively, her eyebrows arching in surprise. “This is delicious. What’s inside? Or is it better not to know?”

Riley chuckled lightly at her comment before answering, “Shredded chicken. Gabriela cooked it for tonight’s dinner – a traditional Guatemalan stew with bell peppers and onions. But it turns out just as well when tucked into tortillas.”

She pulled out two travel mugs and opened the tops.

“Coffee, she said. “And I guarantee it’s strong enough to keep us awake for the trip.”

As they snacked in silence, Riley thought of Bill and Jilly at home, enjoying the dinner along with Gabriela. For a long moment, she wished she was back there with them, but then she turned her mind back to the case. As the car ate up the miles, she let herself sink into the embrace of that old, familiar excitement.

“Let’s see what Meredith sent me,” Riley said. She switched on the tablet to check her email, its screen casting a pale glow in the darkening car. “I know you’ve already been filled in on some of the details.”

“The case involves two women’s bodies found on the Outer Banks beaches,” Ann Marie said, as she navigated the darkening highway. “The most recent one was discovered by a jogger near Kitty Hawk at dawn today. Her name was Billie Shearer. A local hotel owner. Married, two kids.”

“Billie Shearer,” Riley repeated under her breath, letting the name settle in her mind, a placeholder for the life snuffed out too soon.

She looked at the crime scene photos, stark and unforgiving in their clarity. Billie Shearer lay in an almost peaceful repose on a lounge chair, dressed in a style reminiscent of another era. Her swimwear, a high-cut neon pink one-piece, stood out against the muted tones of the beach.

“Her attire is odd,” Riley murmured, looking closely at the swimsuit. “It’s like the killer is staging a scene from another era.”

“That’s right,” Ann Marie said. “And the swimsuit wasn’t her own. It was the same with the earlier victim, Julie Sternan. Forty-three, a high school teacher, dedicated to her students.”

Riley studied the second image on her tablet. Sternan, captured forever in that moment, was clad in a turquoise one-piece swimsuit embellished with striking, geometric designs. The style of the swimsuit hinted at an even earlier time than the other victim’s attire - it echoed the fashion trends of perhaps the 1920s. She also noticed a resemblance between the two women, both of whose hair was rather sloppily cut short, and whose faces were both long with high cheekbones.

“Vintage swimwear again,” she observed.

“And not her own,” Ann Marie reiterated.

“It’s a deliberate choice. A statement.”

“Looks like that to me too.”

“Any last known whereabouts?” Riley pressed.

“Julie Sternan left work, told her husband she’d be home after a quick swim. Never arrived.” Ann Marie replied. “Billie Shearer was on her way to a meeting of the local board of commissioners, but she didn’t show up. Both of their bodies were found the morning after their disappearances.”

Then Riley read the strangest bit of information that Meredith had provided.

“But this says they were freshwater drownings,” she said with a frown.

“Exactly,” Ann Marie confirmed.

“Doesn’t add up. Why go to the trouble of positioning them by the sea?”

“Exactly,” Ann Marie repeated, her tone subdued. “And that retro look with both of them ... it has to signify something, right?”

“Perhaps a message or signature,” Riley considered, her profiler instincts kicking in. The image before her wasn’t just a photograph; it was a puzzle piece, a window into a disturbed mind. Two women connected by two different kinds of water, their lives stolen and displayed like mannequins in a twisted scenic storefront.

“First thing tomorrow,” Ann Marie announced, breaking the silence that had settled between them, “we’re meeting Sheriff Beeler at police headquarters HQ in Teomoc.”

Riley nodded, absorbing the information and filing the name away in her memory. The sheriff probably knew his jurisdiction well, could provide context to the cold facts laid bare on her screen.

“Local insight could make all the difference,” she conceded. “But Beeler’s probably out of his depth and he knows it, which is why he’s called us in. Two murders, both bizarrely out of place. And the possibility of a predator on the loose—it’s more than just bad timing with the tourist season not quite over yet.”

She knew that Teomoc was a place of small-town charm and tourist allure. She understood that the local law enforcement on the Outer Banks, grappling with the needs of tourists and a budget stretched too thin, was signaling a red flag. They needed help—FBI assistance—and not just because their resources were limited, but due to the dark cloud of fear that a serial killer might be at work in the Outer Banks.

Riley felt a familiar prickle at the back of her neck—a sense that these murders were only the beginning of something intricate and sinister.

She scrutinized the information again. What could those oddly dated swimsuits signify? A killer’s signature, or a red herring meant to mislead?

To answer those questions, Riley knew that she would have to find her way into yet another murderer’s mind. She had built her FBI career on her ability to connect with that kind of darkness. Was she skilled enough, strong enough, to do that again?

CHAPTER THREE

Early the next morning, Riley watched as the soft light of dawn turned the sky into a canvas of golds and pinks. The sun was just spilling over the horizon as Ann Marie drove them through the quiet streets of Teomoc, North Carolina, where quaint beach houses gave way to small businesses, with very few people out on the streets. They had checked into a pleasant motel just before midnight and slept well enough to get up and out very early this morning after a quick morning snack.

“Isn’t it just breathtaking, Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice bubbled with excitement as she gestured to the sprawling coastal view. “The way the sun shimmers on the water, it’s like a thousand diamonds.”

Riley listened quietly, but made no comment in return. The young agent’s enthusiasm was sometimes contagious, but right now it jarred with thoughts in her own mind—memories of cases solved and unsolved, lives saved and lost, constantly checking for comparisons to what they might be faced with here.

Still, it must feel good to be so young and enthusiastic, she thought, feeling slightly envious and a little old.

Although Riley often found Ann Marie’s high spirits a bit exhausting, she had learned that this partner could focus on the job when it became necessary.

They soon arrived at the police headquarters, and Ann Marie parked her FBI sedan in the lot. When they stepped out of the car, the morning’s chill was beginning to recede in the warmth of the rising sun. The building in front of them was unassuming, its faded brick facade blending seamlessly with the easygoing vibe of the coastal town.

As she walked through the front doors, Riley’s gaze landed on a bulletin board that stood in the lobby. Among colorful pamphlets promising whale watching tours and historical excursions were stark black-and-white images of wanted criminals—their faces frozen in time. It was a jarring juxtaposition, this collision of innocence and danger in a popular vacation destination. Although the entire police headquarters had a sort of laid-back charm, that didn’t mask the undercurrent of tension. She and Ann Marie were here because this charming community had been marred by violence.

As soon as they stepped inside, Sheriff Smitty Beeler approached. He was a large, imposing figure with the face of a seasoned lawman, showing the lines of countless cases and sleepless nights. With a tight smile, he extended a hand to Riley.

“Agents,” he said in a gruff voice, “I appreciate you coming down so quick. We’ve got our hands full with this one.”

Riley took his hand, feeling the firm grip that spoke of both strength and a certain weary resolve. She met his gaze, noting the faint shadow under his eyes—likely from poring over case files into the early hours. Yet, his uniform was immaculate, the badge polished to a shine that seemed to defy the ungodly hour. The sheriff radiated an air of steadfast dedication that resonated with Riley, a kindred spirit in this kind of job.

“Of course, Sheriff Beeler,” she replied, her tone matching his professionalism. “We’re here to help in any way we can.”

As they exchanged pleasantries, Riley found herself cataloging every detail—the way Beeler’s holster had molded to the shape of his sidearm from years of wear, the subtle shift of his weight suggesting a slight limp, perhaps an injury sustained in the line of duty.

“I understand that a jogger found your most recent body,” Riley commented.

“That’s right,” the Sheriff replied. “Her husband had actually reported her missing the day before yesterday. Luther Shearer is his name, they owned a hotel together over in Darnley. Billie was a member of the Darnley Board of Commissioners. Luther reported her missing when she didn’t show up for a meeting. Nobody had any idea what had happened to her until … Well, I can show you the place where her body was found.”

Beeler led them outside to his cruiser, its white and blue paint job standing out against the backdrop of the awakening town. Riley settled into the front passenger seat, and Ann Marie climbed in back.

As Beeler drove the cruiser, Riley observed that the town was now stirring to life. Shopkeepers unfurled awnings, their storefronts welcoming the first hints of commerce. Early-morning joggers, their breath visible in the cool air, maintained a steady pace on the sidewalks, lost in the rhythm of exertion. And there, at the periphery, the early risers among the tourists made their pilgrimage toward the beach, drawn by the allure of sun and surf.

Despite the normalcy of the scene, there was an undercurrent of tension that Riley couldn’t ignore. It was there in the brisk nods of the locals, the hushed conversations that paused as they passed. Word had clearly gotten around about a couple of recent deaths in the Outer Banks, even if the details hadn’t been made public. This wasn’t just another day; a darkness had settled over the community, one that wouldn’t lift until the killer was found.

As they drove, the chatter of the radio dispatch blended with the murmur of the engine, creating a soundtrack to their journey. Riley’s gaze followed the long stretch of asphalt as it sliced through the marshy expanses of Teomoc Island, leading them towards Kitty Hawk.

The rising sun cast a soft glow on the bridge that connected Teomoc Island to Bodie Island, transforming the mundane structure into a gilded path over the water. Beeler’s voice provided a constant backdrop, his drawl rich with the history of the Outer Banks, recounting tales of shipwrecks and daring rescues that seemed at odds with the serenity of the morning.

“Visitors can get rowdy during peak tourist season,” Beeler mused, casting a sideways glance at Riley. “It’s like they fall prey to the buccaneer legends of these parts. But usually, we don’t have to deal with anything worse than the drunk and disorderly. Now, with these murders...”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

Riley absorbed his words, the weight of responsibility in his tone not lost on her. She knew that a delicate balance must be required to manage a sanctuary for vacationers that had become a potential hunting ground for a killer.

As they descended from the bridge, the landscape shifted subtly. The quaint houses and kitschy shops gave way to open spaces where nature reasserted itself. Sand dunes rose alongside the road, their grass-tufted crests waving gently in the breeze. The air carried the tang of salt and the earthier scents of marshlands.

“Look at those dunes,” Ann Marie commented, pointing to a series of sandy mounds in the distance. “They look like giant waves frozen mid-crash. It’s all so... alive.”

Riley realized that she shared some of Ann Marie’s wonder at the ever-shifting world around them.

“Almost there,” Beeler announced, turning the cruiser onto a narrow access road that ran between the dunes and the waterfront.

He pulled the car off the road at a spot marked by yellow police tape fluttering erratically in the stiff coastal breeze, and they all got out and walked through the soft sand. With each step towards the beach, the sound of the ocean grew louder, the rhythmic crash of waves a natural cadence that had witnessed countless sunrises.

A large tent loomed ahead, its white canvas stark against the blues and greens of the Outer Banks landscape. More police tape marked off the area around it, and one of Beeler’s officers kept watch over it. More than just a boundary for the public, the tape was a psychological barrier, segregating the ordinary world from a space where something extraordinary—and horrific—had occurred.

“We put the tent up right after the discovery,” Sheriff Beeler said, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves. He motioned them forward with a sweep of his arm, the lines on his face deepening with the weight of responsibility. “Wanted to keep the elements and the curious eyes away. We did the same at the earlier crime scene. I’ll show that to you later.”

Riley came to a stop outside the tent, viewing the beach around them. The tent was in the dry upper part of the beach that was never reached by ordinary high tides. Here, the sand was soft and shifty. She saw that their own trail of footprints was just a series of fuzzy-edged indentations.

“I guess you wouldn’t have found any identifiable footprints along here,” she observed.

“Unfortunately not,” Beeler agreed. “And even if there had been any down closer to the water, the tide would have erased them before we got here.”

Riley could see that the wet sand area had been washed clean. She knew that there were two high tides and two low tides daily, and that the exact times constantly shifted a little. But that pattern wouldn’t affect what took place up here on the dry sand.

“The jogger who found the body was running along the hard sand at the edge of the water,” Beeler explained. “But when she saw a woman who appeared to be sunbathing in the early dawn hours, she stopped to speak with her. When she walked closer, she realized that the woman was dead. She panicked, but she did have a phone with her and she pulled herself together and dialed for help.”

“I imagine the killer transported the body here after death,” Ann Marie deduced, her gaze scanning the surroundings. “Because she wasn’t drowned in this ocean water.”

“That’s right.” Beeler affirmed.

“By land or by sea?” Ann Marie questioned further, her eyes flicking between the distant road and shimmering ocean.

“A car would make more sense,” Beeler replied, gesturing back towards the narrow strip of asphalt that cut through the otherwise untouched landscape. “Just a short drag from where we parked. It wouldn’t take extraordinary strength to get everything out there, but it would mean more than one trip for a single person.”

Riley’s dark eyes narrowed as she focused on the sandy terrain. “Any indication of drag marks?” she asked.

Beeler shrugged, his weathered face creasing into a thoughtful frown. “A few indentations that could be construed as such, but they’re inconclusive at best. The soft sand doesn’t hold much information.”

“So she was found by an early morning jogger,” Riley mused. “What about beach patrols?”

“They don’t run as often as during high tourist season. One came along here around midnight, but nothing had happened by then. The earlier victim was found by a local who went out fishing at dawn a couple of days ago, near Scudmore farther south on the Outer Banks.”

With a sigh, Riley said, “Okay, let’s see the scene inside the tent.”

Sheriff Beeler pushed a tent flap open, and they stepped inside. “At least the wind was cooperative,” he said. “Kept the scene as undisturbed as possible.”

The air was still, the smell of the sea battling with the sterility of forensic work that had been carried out here. The empty folding lounge chair sat in its place, and a few forensic tags marked where the body had been positioned and a few indentations that might have been footprints.

“So she was dead by the time she was placed in that chair,” Ann Marie commented, “but not dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in.”

“That’s right,” Beeler agreed. “So she would have been put here within a couple hours of death. Not much longer than that, anyhow. As for the beach chair itself—well, as you can see, it’s old and well-used. So was the other one where Julie Sternan’s body was found, and the two of them didn’t match.”

Riley could see the problem.

God knows where these beach chairs came from, she thought.

They’d been purchased long ago, and tracing their origins would be impossible. As she stood before the empty chair, its canvas slack in the absence of its occupant, she pulled out her cell phone and studied the crime scene photos. In her mind, she could see the victim superimposed on the empty chair. It was as though Billie Shearer lay there in her pink one-piece swimsuit, at first glance looking perfectly natural.

There wasn’t a question in her mind that they were dealing with someone meticulous, someone who treated murder like a perverse form of art.

She stepped closer to the beach lounger, her mind already sifting through the information in front of her. The killer had chosen this location purposefully—a place of beauty transformed into a stage, a setting for a macabre display. What message were they trying to send? What perverse satisfaction did they derive from leaving their victim in such a public yet isolated space?

Ann Marie kept asking questions, and Beeler kept trying without much success to answer them. Meanwhile, Riley’s thoughts drifted elsewhere. Her intuition began to stir, that uncanny ability to slip beneath the skin of those who do harm.

Eyes closed, Riley let the sound of the waves guide her deeper into her own psyche, seeking the recesses where she seemed to be connected with the minds of those who perpetrated such acts. What drove a person to stage their violence like a play, each act calculated to leave an impression? What twisted satisfaction did they derive from this display?

Drifting within that mental space, Riley’s other senses dulled, she focused on the echoes of intent left behind, piecing together fragments of what she had seen whether consciously noticed or not, what she could draw on from having worked so many cases. She was searching for the ‘why’ behind the ‘what’ that had happened here.

The image before her inner eye was elusive, like the last fading remnants of a dream upon waking. A hazy picture lined with the sepia tones of nostalgia. It wasn’t merely death laid out before her but a sense of guilt—of passion—and of something incomplete. This killer wasn’t finished, and there seemed to be no ending in sight.

CHAPTER FOUR

As Riley opened her eyes, the world rushed back in, the stark reality of the tent grounding her once more. She exhaled slowly, the vestiges of a killer’s presence lingering like smoke in her mind. She noticed Ann Marie’s gaze fixed upon her with a mix of curiosity and concern.

The younger agent had maneuvered her position so that she was facing Riley and the Sheriff looking away. Ann Marie had shrewdly distracted Sheriff Beeler’s attention when Riley had drifted away into her reverie, and Riley was grateful for that.

But Ann Marie’s eyes were wide, unblinking, and Riley knew that silent questions were forming behind them. They had never spoken about the way Riley’s intuition worked, the gift that allowed her to feel the echoes of a murderer’s intent. Riley knew that Ann Marie had some idea about all this. She also knew perfectly well that her abilities had an exaggerated reputation throughout the BAU, and Ann Marie had caught wind of such talk.

Riley had considered opening up with Ann Marie about all this, letting her young partner in on the unique way she connected with their cases. She really needed to do that sooner rather than later. But how could she articulate something so intangible? Her insights were born of whispers in her mind, not the concrete evidence that one could file in a report.

Although her sources were not supernatural, her ability to put barely perceived hints together with extensive experience and a profiler’s skills often took the form of pictures in her mind—and that was not an easy process to account for.

“How about you, Agent Paige?” Ann Marie asked, careful not to call her by her first name in front of a local law enforcement official. “Any theories?”

“This must be something personal,” Riley replied. “Here and in the photographs of the other scene, it looks like someone is recreating... repurposing the past.”

“Like a signature?” Ann Marie asked, eager to understand.

“More intimate. It’s as if...” Riley paused, searching for the right words, “...as if the killer is dressing up the present in the past’s clothing.”

The Sheriff looked puzzled, so Riley added, “Of course this is all guesswork, just first impressions.”

With a deep breath, she turned away from the beach chair and the images it conjured. There was a lot of ordinary investigative work to be done, and she wanted to get on with that. As they prepared to leave, the crime scene’s stark reality juxtaposed against the natural beauty of the beach served as a poignant reminder of the fragility of life.

“We’d better start making our rounds,” Sheriff Beeler said. “I guess you want to talk to the husband of the deceased and with the woman who found the body.”

“We need to put every detail of the crime scene together,” Riley said. “Let’s start with the one who found her.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “She and her roommate rented a nice cottage right on the beach. They’re both software engineers, here on vacation. I’ll take you to them.”

It was just a short drive to a quaint cottage not far from Kitty Hawk. It was raised on posts that kept it above any unusual high tides. The weathered gray shingles and wide porch overlooking the shore gave it a pleasant lived-in feel. It was one of a row of similar buildings—all simple cottages, but Riley knew they were not inexpensive to rent in a location like this.

“Looks peaceful,” Ann Marie remarked, her voice betraying a hint of wistfulness.

“I don’t suppose it feels that way to the people inside,” Riley replied, her gaze lingering on the drawn curtains. She knew all too well how quickly tranquility could be shattered, how a single event could turn a vacation into a nightmare.

The three investigators left the car and climbed wooden steps to the entrance. After a soft knock, they waited for an answer.

They were greeted at the door by a woman, elegantly dressed and in her fifties. Sheriff Beeler stepped forward to make introductions.

“Agents Paige and Esmer,” he gestured toward the woman, “this is Grace Mitchell. She’s the realtor who rented this cottage to Linda Morris and Lucy North.”

Grace extended her hand to each of them in turn, her eyes reflecting a warmth that belied the circumstances.

“I’ve been spending some time with Linda and Lucy,” Grace explained, her voice holding a note of regret. “I can’t help but feel... well, responsible in some strange way. I know it doesn’t make sense - I mean, how could I have known what would happen? But I was the one who rented them this place.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “So, I thought the least I could do was to be here for them, at least as much as I could.”

Riley found herself touched by Grace’s compassion.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said sincerely.

“But unfortunately,” Grace added with an apologetic smile, “I have another property to show soon. Duty calls.”

With a final nod of thanks from Riley and Ann Marie, Grace left the house. Sheriff Beeler led them inside, where they met Linda Morris. The pallor of her face struck Riley more than any words could have done - a stark reminder of why they were there. It was the look of someone who had seen too much, the haunted expression of one touched by death.

The Sheriff introduced the two FBI agents, then Riley said, “Ms. Morris, thank you for seeing us. We just have a few questions. Won’t take much of your time.”

Linda stepped back so they could enter, the led them through the front hall, its walls adorned with framed seaside prints, into a small sitting room. The living room was a sanctuary of soft couches and pastel hues, with knick-knacks that might have been picked up from local beachside shops adorning the shelves and tables. A book lay open, face down, on an armchair—a tableau of domestic normalcy interrupted.

Perched anxiously in a big stuffed chair, a petite woman cast her gaze around the room, her eyes bloodshot and weary. Linda gestured towards her, breaking the silence.

“This is my friend, Lucy North,” she said softly. “We work together back in Raleigh.”

“We came here to relax before starting in on a big project,” Lucy said in a near-whisper of pained irony.

“Can we sit?” Riley asked gently, indicating the sofa. Linda nodded mutely and shuffled to an armchair, curling into herself like a child seeking comfort.

Ann Marie settled on the sofa beside Riley, her posture perfect, the very picture of composed concern. The Sheriff looked around and picked a chair that looked strong enough to accommodate him. Both of them looked at Riley expectantly, a signal for her to do the questioning.

“Thank you,” Riley said to Linda again. “We’ll do everything we can to make this as quick as possible.”

The gratitude in Linda’s tired eyes was a silent acknowledgment of their shared burden. Here they were, strangers thrown together by a cruel twist of fate, bound by the need to understand, to bring order back to a world turned upside-down.

“Ms. Morris,” Riley began, aware of the delicate balance between empathy and the need for information. “Can you walk us through what happened yesterday morning?”

The words were a catalyst, and Linda’s face crumpled as she relived the moment of horror. “I’ve already …” she began to protest, looking at the sheriff.

“If you’ll go over it again,” Beeler said gently, “the FBI might be able to help us stop this killer.”

Linda swallowed hard and then recounted the early hours, when the world seemed untouched and pure, the mist floating above the water. With each word, she transported Riley to the desolate beach where serenity had been shattered by the grotesque reality of death.

“At first I wondered—who sunbathes at dawn?” Her voice broke under the weight of the memory. “But then... then I realized...something must be wrong.”

Riley absorbed every tremor in Linda’s voice, every haunted glance towards Lucy. This was more than recounting facts; it was an unburdening.

Linda’s hands clenched and unclenched, as if she were attempting to wring the haunting memory from her very skin.

“I called out to her,” she went on, her voice a mere whisper in the quiet room. “But there was only stillness in return. I walked closer, trying to talk with her...and when I saw her eyes behind those sunglasses…”

Her voice hitched, choked by the rawness of the recollection.

“They were vacant,” she finally managed to continue. “No life in them at all. It was like being trapped in some awful horror movie.”

Her gaze sought Riley’s, desperate for empathy, for a reprieve from a burden of guilt that wasn’t actually hers.

“You’re being very helpful, Ms. Morris," Riley said. “I just have a couple more questions.”

She hesitated before making a query that was both necessary and invasive.

“Did you touch anything? Or even move anything?”

“No, I—I knew better than to disturb … I knew that I mustn’t …. I backed away and I think I screamed, but I called 911 as soon as I could manage my phone.”

“Just one more thing,” Riley said. “Have either of you spoken to anyone about what happened? Specifically about the condition of the body?”

Both women shook their heads.

“The Sheriff told us not to,” Linda said.

“We didn’t even tell Grace about all that,” Lucy added.

“Then please keep it that way,” Riley said. “It’s important that the details not be made public.”

“Okay,” Linda said. Her gaze drifted off, lost in the replay of that morning.

Lucy broke in, her whisper laden with terror. “Neither of us can stop thinking about that poor woman. But what if Linda had run into the killer?”

The question was unsettling and potent. Riley had no doubt there would have been two dead women on that beach to be discovered by whoever wandered by next.

She felt sympathy for these two young women. As software engineers, they probably worked hard. Their vacation, meant for rest and rejuvenation, had been brutally upended, overshadowed by what-ifs and could-have-beens. Here in this cozy living room, far removed from the sterile confines of an interrogation room, the impact of this woman’s report felt all the more personal, all the more poignant.

“Thank you, Linda,” Riley said softly, closing her notebook with a sense of finality. The story had been told, the recollection setting the gears of investigation into motion. But behind the facts lay the human cost, the shadows now cast over two lives that had merely sought the peace of an ocean vacation.

“Let’s go,” Riley said to her companions, her voice firm despite the knot of apprehension in her stomach.

As she stood, Riley extended a hand, pressing a small card between Linda’s trembling fingers. “If you need to talk, this service can help,” she said. “I’ve written my phone number on the back if you want to check in with me.”

“Thank you,” Linda managed, clutching the card as if it were a lifeline. Lucy nodded beside her, silent gratitude shimmering in her eyes.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Riley assured them, her much-repeated promise genuine despite the helplessness that often came with it. “Please try to rest, and do call Sheriff Beeler or me if you remember anything else.”

Both Ann Marie and Sheriff Beeler thanked the two women. Then Riley and her colleagues made their way out of the cottage. The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing off the world of Linda and Lucy from their view. Riley moved down the stairs, then paused on sand below, taking a deep breath of salty air that did little to cleanse the lingering taste of tragedy.

“It’s such a lovely setting,” Ann Marie commented sadly.

Riley nodded, taking one last look up at the cottage. Behind those curtains, two women grappled with the kind of fear that would linger for many years to come—perhaps for the rest of their lives.

She caught Beeler’s eye and indicated their next destination.

“Sheriff, we should speak with Luther Shearer next. We need to hear his story.”

“Of course,” Beeler agreed, his own demeanor mirroring Riley’s professional resolve as he led them back to the cruiser.

“Next stop, the town of Darnley,” Beeler announced, as he opened the car doors for his two companions. “It’s not far from Nag’s Head.”

The drive was serene as the road unfurled like a ribbon, weaving between pockets of civilization and stretches of natural beauty. Yet, for all its tranquility, Riley’s mind was anything but still. She found herself revisiting each detail, each thread of the case, in search of a pattern.

As they drew closer to Luther Shearer’s world—a world fractured by loss—Riley steeled herself for the encounter. Interviewing the bereaved was never easy. Meeting the loved ones of victims was like navigating a minefield blindfolded; one misstep could end the discussion. But it was a necessary part of the process, a painful step toward finding the truth. She had done this countless times, yet each time felt like the first, every story unique in its pain and its plea for answers.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ann Marie Esmer watched the passing coastal landscape from the passenger seat of Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser. Riley was seated in the back seat reviewing files, oblivious to the blur of tans and greens flashing by outside their windows.

“We’re almost there,” Sheriff Beeler remarked, as he navigated bends in the road.

“Good,” Ann Marie murmured, any further response lost in thought.

The thrill of working with Riley again was strong, yet so was a pang of guilt. Her current position had been made possible by her former partner’s relentless progression of illness. She remembered Grady’s resignation letter, the way his signature wavered at the bottom of the page. Although she and Grady had gotten along just fine, they hadn’t had the natural rhythm she felt when she was partnered with Riley.

They drove into the town of Darnley, where Sheriff Beeler’s car pulled up to a stop outside the Seaspray Hotel. It was a quaint place that the Shearers had owned and operated together for many years.

“Luther Shearer said he’d be here to meet us,” Beeler said, opening the car door.

Ann Marie stepped out, stretching her legs and taking a moment to breathe in the salty tang of the ocean air again. As they entered the hotel lobby, the cheerful chatter of vacationers contrasted sharply with the reason for their visit. It appeared that a competent staff was keeping things going in spite of the tragedy faced by the remaining owner.

While Beeler spoke to the woman at the front desk, Ann Marie gazed around at the eclectic assortment of mismatched armchairs, each with its own unique pattern and color that told a story of its own. Footstools, each differing in texture and height, beckoned visitors to rest their feet and engage in leisurely conversation. The cozy atmosphere invited anyone who entered to sit, chat, and lose track of time.

Soon, a man approached them. He was slender and bent, his face marked with lines of unspeakable loss. Ann Marie took in his red-rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders. She had seen grief manifest in many forms, but it never got easier to witness.

The man nodded to Sheriff Beeler, then turned toward the two agents. Riley introduced them both.

“Mr. Shearer, I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, and this is my partner, Agent Esmer. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Without comment, Shearer led them to a meeting room just off of the lobby, where the walls were adorned with framed paintings of ocean and beach scenes. They settled into plush, high-backed chairs at one end of a long table.

As soon as Luther began speaking, his frustration became apparent.

“Why won’t the police tell me anything at all, Sheriff?” he demanded. “I still don’t know who found Billie’s body or how. I’m being kept completely in the dark.”

With gentle firmness, Sheriff Beeler explained the need for confidentiality during an ongoing investigation. Then Ann Marie saw Riley nod at her, and she picked up the questioning.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk with us,” Ann Marie began, her voice soft. She watched as Luther tried to compose himself. She remembered the lessons she’d learned from consoling mourners at her father’s funeral home – how to hold space for grief, to listen more than speak, and when to gently probe the tender spots of a wounded soul.

“Anything if it helps find who did this to Billie,” he replied.

“We know this is incredibly difficult for you,” she continued, maintaining eye contact, “but anything you remember could be crucial. We need your help to piece together Billie’s last day – to understand what might have happened.”

Ann Marie asked the necessary questions with a gentle directness, her blue eyes radiating sincerity and concern. She noted how Luther clung to the ‘normal’ details of their last lunch together, as though recounting them might somehow rewind time and erase the current nightmare. He described the chicken salad sandwich Billie ate at lunch, the iced tea she sipped, their shared laughter.

“Then Billie kissed me goodbye,” Luther told them, his gaze distant. “She always did before heading out. Said it brought her good luck.”

“Where was she going?” Ann Marie asked.

“She was headed for a Board of Commissioners meeting at Town Hall,” Luther said. “She was a member of the board. I got a call when she didn’t turn up for the meeting, and then I called the police.”

Sheriff Beeler gave Luther a comforting tap on the shoulder.

“Luther, I need you to tell the agents what you told me when we talked before,” Sheriff Beeler said. “About those emails Billie received.”

Luther turned pale and took a deep breath before speaking.

“In the last few days... Billie started getting these strange emails,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “They were from someone we didn’t know, and they had photos of her attached.”

Riley leaned forward in her chair, her eyes sharp. “Photos?” she asked.

He nodded again, swallowing hard. “Yes. Photos of Billie that were taken without her knowledge.” His voice cracked as he added, “Some of them were even taken while she was swimming.”

Ann Marie felt a chill at this revelation. “We need to find out who sent those photos,” she said. “Those messages need to go to FBI forensics.”

Luther hesitated, his shoulders tense with reluctance. “Do I really have to…" he asked, turning to the Sheriff.

Sheriff Beeler nodded solemnly. “There were others …” he began, leaving the rest unsaid but heavy with implication.

Ann Marie leaned forward slightly, her tone both firm and reassuring. “This is crucial for finding out who did this to Billie,” she explained. “Forensics will need full access to those emails.” She paused, meeting Luther's eyes with unwavering determination. “Sam Flores can trace them back to their source if anyone can.”

Luther sighed. “They’re still on her computer. I can bring it to the Sheriff.”

“Just get it to my office,” Beeler told him. “I'll make sure whatever is needed gets delivered straight to Quantico,” he assured them.

Riley agreed with a nod before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a card. She jotted down a number on it before handing it over to the sheriff.

“Have someone call this number when they have the computer,” she instructed him. “Ask directly for Sam Flores and tell him I said to call.”

“And who is Sam Flores?” Beeler asked, looking at the card.

“He’s part of our technical forensics department,” Riley explained patiently. “Make sure he gets access to Billie’s computer—full access. I’ll send him the case files, so he’ll understand the situation.” She met Luther’s gaze squarely as she added, “If anyone can trace those emails back to their source... it will be Sam.”

When the interview concluded, all that Ann Marie and her colleagues had learned was that Luther didn’t know of anyone who would want to do his wife harm—except possibly for the sender of those unsettling photos. The three investigators stepped outside the hotel, where a salty breeze carried the distant cry of seagulls, and people around them were clearly enjoying a bright fall day in Darnley.

Riley spoke up, “Let’s retrace the path Billie took on the way to Town Hall.”

“We checked that route already, right after the call came in about her going missing,” he reminded them.

“We’d like to go over it anyway,” Riley said.

Sheriff Beeler led them on their next errand, his gait marked by the faint limp that spoke of years on the job, injuries sustained, and battles fought.

The stretch from Seaspray Hotel to Town Hall was trodden by locals and tourists alike. Lined with quaint shops, these streets buzzed with life, as the gentle sea breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean and mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread from nearby bakeries.

As they retraced Billie’s steps, Ann Marie tried to imagine this scene through a lens of malice, wondering if any passerby, any casual glance, held a darker intent. She glanced at Riley, whose gaze swept over the landscape with the precision of a hawk.

“Notice anything?” Ann Marie ventured, hoping to glean even a fragment of insight from her partner’s process. Her mind replayed the morning’s scene in the crime scene tent, the image of Riley’s closed eyes. Ann Marie had seen that look before. It was more than mere concentration; it was as if she were connecting with something invisible to her companions.

“Just looking for patterns,” Riley replied cryptically, her eyes still scanning. “Sometimes they scream louder than words.”

Then, as they moved along one less active street, Riley suddenly veered towards an unremarkable alleyway.

“Agent Paige?” Ann Marie called softly, registering the shift in her partner’s posture. Riley had paused, her attention snagged by an alleyway so inconspicuous it seemed almost deliberately forgettable. With an unreadable expression, Riley stepped off the sidewalk, her movements marked with purpose.

Ann Marie exchanged a brief look with Beeler, one that conveyed both her confusion and unspoken trust in Riley’s instincts. Together, they trailed after the senior FBI agent, entering the shadowed passage between the buildings. The sudden coolness felt like stepping into another world, one hidden from the casual glances of passersby.

Riley crouched down, hovering just above the concrete. Ann Marie leaned closer, squinting at the ground, trying to decipher what had caught Riley’s eye amid the grime and detritus. She saw nothing but the expected wear and tear of an alley frequented by delivery trucks and hurried footsteps—just scuffs and stains whispering tales of routine urban life.

“Something there?” Ann Marie asked, keeping her voice low, as though afraid to disturb the silence that seemed to be speaking volumes to Riley.

Whispers had reached even the newest agents at the BAU about Riley Paige’s almost otherworldly intuition. A talent for delving into the psyche of killers, a skill that bordered on the paranormal. Ann Marie found herself both drawn to and wary of this aspect of her partner. There was an enigma there, a fascinating mystery that she wished she understood.

Ann Marie watched, her breath held in suspense, as Riley’s index finger hovered over the concrete before coming to rest beside a scuff mark. To Ann Marie, it was just another blemish on the alley’s skin, no different from the countless others they had stepped over. But Riley, with her eyes narrowing into slits of intense focus, saw something else entirely.

“See this?” Riley’s voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it cut through the morning hush with the sharpness of a blade.

Ann Marie crouched down beside her partner, trying to see what made this particular mark stand out, but it remained stubbornly indistinct. She felt a trickle of frustration at her own inability to perceive the subtleties that so clearly spoke to Riley. Standing behind her, Sheriff Beeler was remarkably silent.

“Right here,” Riley continued, straightening up. Her gaze seemed to penetrate the very fabric of the alleyway. “This is where it happened. Billie was lured into this alley and attacked.”

Riley’s words painted an image more vivid than any crime scene photo could. “The perpetrator then dragged her to a waiting vehicle, likely parked right here.” She pointed to a spot by a wall where the asphalt met dirt and debris.

Ann Marie looked at the indicated place, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that crept over her. The spot appeared mundane and ordinary, yet now it was transformed in her mind’s eye into a silent witness to violence.

“Dragged to a vehicle...here?” Ann Marie echoed, seeking clarity in Riley’s theory. Her partner’s method—this uncanny knack for visualizing crimes—never ceased to unnerve her.

“Here,” Riley affirmed, gesturing again to the nondescript patch of alley. “There are signs of a struggle. Not obvious to the untrained eye, but look closer at the patterns, the displacement of dirt, the way these marks abruptly start and stop.”

Ann Marie’s gaze followed the arc of Riley’s hand as she mapped out the unseen journey Billie Shearer had been forced to take. Ann Marie’s mind raced to keep pace with Riley’s deductions, piecing together the fragments of evidence into a coherent narrative.

She observed the ground with renewed attention, trying to align her vision with Riley’s insights. Slowly, she began to discern irregularities she had missed before, subtle disruptions in the dust and grime that told of a violent dance.

“Footprints, signs of a scuffle, maybe even drag marks,” Ann Marie muttered under her breath, piecing together the fragments of evidence.

“Exactly,” Riley acknowledged, her eyes reflecting the gravity of their discovery.

“Perpetrator would’ve needed quick access to the street, minimal visibility from bystanders. This spot is perfect for an ambush,” Riley mused, her eyes tracing invisible lines only she could see.

“Could there be surveillance cameras that caught something?” Ann Marie suggested, scanning the walls of the surrounding buildings.

“Unlikely. They would have checked already, and this area...” Riley’s voice trailed off as she surveyed the alley, “It’s too exposed for someone not to notice cameras. No, our killer knew what they were doing.”

Ann Marie’s eyes followed Sheriff Beeler’s gaze as it played over Riley’s face, searching for some sign of ordinary logic in the extraordinary claim. The sheriff’s brow furrowed, his mouth opened as if to question the very ground beneath their feet.

“Are you sure about this?” Beeler asked, his skepticism giving way to a dawning uncertainty. But Ann Marie had no doubts. She’d seen Riley take leaps of logic before, and each time they’d landed on solid ground.

The air around them seemed charged with the tension of unspoken thoughts, Sheriff Beeler’s confusion clashing silently with Riley’s quiet confidence. Ann Marie felt the pull of her partner’s intuition, the draw of that uncanny ability to see into the shadows where others saw only light. It was a gift that Ann Marie both marveled at and envied – a gift that had solved cases that would have remained mysteries to anyone else.

As Riley continued to paint the picture of Billie’s last known moments alive, Ann Marie felt a rush of admiration. Riley’s words were careful but certain as she described how Billie must have been taken by surprise, overpowered, and then removed from this place of mundane passings-by. Every detail added depth to the scene, turning the alley into a silent witness to an unseen struggle.

As Riley’s voice ebbed and flowed with the cadence of her reasoning, Ann Marie could feel the strength of each conclusion. This was what she had missed – the thrill of seeing unusual skills applied to the chase. A familiar surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins.

But in that moment of heightened awareness, a subtle shift occurred. Ann Marie saw Sheriff Beeler had pulled out his phone, thumb swiping across the screen with a distracted air. His eyes darted across the screen, fixed on a text message with an intensity that drew a tight line between his brows.

Ann Marie’s breath hitched slightly, her focus torn between Riley’s ongoing analysis and the sheriff’s sudden change in demeanor. What could be so important as to draw him away from Riley’s revelatory deductions? Something was up, something beyond the grim facts laid bare on the concrete in front of them.

“Agents,” Beeler’s voice cut through the air, a resigned undertone marring his usual authority. “We’ve got another stop to make. Fair warning - it’s not going to be pleasant.”

CHAPTER SIX

“What’s worse,” Beeler added to his warning, “I’m afraid this trip is going to be a waste of time—time that we don’t have.” With that, he slid his phone back into his pocket, then turned and headed out of the alley, leading the way back toward his cruiser. “But we need to go anyhow.”

Riley shook off the images she was getting from the scuffs in the alley and followed after the Sheriff. “If it’s not urgent …” she ventured.

“Obligatory more than urgent,” Beeler replied with a shake of his head. His voice held the tired edge of a man who’d fielded one too many calls. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with similar situations.”

Ann Marie caught up with them just as the Sheriff continued his explanation.

“The text I just got was from Sylvia Sitwell. She’s the Director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office in Teomoc and she wants updates—right now and in person.”

Riley nodded, understanding the delicate balance between keeping the public informed and releasing a story that could cause unnecessary panic.

“Sitwell’s been hounding me since we found the first body,” Beeler confessed, his grip tight on the steering wheel. “I’ve been putting her off, but if we don’t talk to her in person, there’s no telling what kind of misinformation she might put out. Probably anything she can think of to play down any danger to the public.”

They all reached the cruiser and climbed in. Riley’s mind was awhirl with the details of the case as the cruiser cut through the coastal air, heading back to Teomoc.

As they passed over the now-familiar bridge onto Teomoc Island, she thought about the two victims, each adorned in swimwear from different earlier times, as if the killer were curating a macabre museum exhibit.

“Sheriff Beeler,” she asked, “do you have any leads on where those vintage swimsuits might’ve come from?”

Beeler’s eyes flicked over to her before settling back on the road.

“I’d thought I did, but I guess I was wrong,” he admitted. “There’s a store down in Scudmore, called Tidal Beauties. Deals in old-timey swim gear. It’s right near where Julie Sternan’s body was found.”

“Did you check it out?” Ann Marie inquired, leaning forward from the back seat.

“Yeah, I went there,” Beeler grunted. “Owner’s a fellow named Steven Walsh. He let me look through his catalogues. I combed through every page—and nothing matched that particular 20s outfit that Julie was wearing. It was a dead end.”

They turned into Teomoc, passing through streets lined with colorful shops and restaurants open for business. When Beeler parked in front of the Outer Banks Tourists Office, Riley observed the quaint charm of the building. It was a two-story structure painted in bright pastel colors that were faded by the sun and salt air. A large banner hung across the front, advertising local attractions and events. The windows displayed an array of colorful brochures and maps, promising endless adventures for visitors to the Outer Banks. Potted palm trees flanked the entrance, their fronds rustling gently in the coastal breeze.

Riley stepped out of the vehicle, taking a deep breath of the salty air, bracing for the inevitable tension with local bureaucracy.

When they entered the building and headed for the director’s office, the air was thick with the aroma of polished wood and expensive perfume—a stark contrast to the salty tang of the beach outside. At the center of the office stood Sylvia Sitwell, a woman whose very posture spelled political savvy and an obsession with optics.

Her tailored suit was as immaculate as her coiffed hair, a string of pearls draped around her neck that caught the light each time she moved—a beacon of authority in the room. Riley was startled to feel a sudden dislike for her, a palpable feeling of mistrust.

“Sheriff Beeler, who do we have here?” Sitwell’s voice was laced with apprehension.

“Ms. Sitwell, meet Special Agents Riley Paige and Ann Marie Esmer from the FBI,” Sheriff Beeler introduced them, his tone steady.

Riley could feel the sudden friction between them, the dissonance of their priorities scraping against each other. Sitwell’s gaze flickered over Riley, calculating, assessing potential threats to her carefully constructed image.

“I texted you just now to bring me an update,” Sitwell said to Beeler. “I hadn’t expected you to drag in the FBI.”

Beeler cleared his throat uneasily before speaking.

“Ms. Sitwell, I requested their help because we might be dealing with something bigger than we anticipated.”

Sitwell’s eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth drawing tight. “What do you mean?”

Riley answered the question, “A lot of the details in these two murders match up. They don’t appear random. We might be dealing with a serial killer.”

“I see,” Sitwell said, though it was clear she wished she didn’t. “I’d hoped local law enforcement could handle the investigations without... escalating matters. That’s not the kind of news I want to release.”

Then Sylvia Sitwell folded her arms across her chest, her expression one of cool skepticism.

“Sheriff Beeler,” she began, each word clipped, precise, “the information you’ve provided thus far me is very scant. It doesn’t convince me that we’re dealing with a serial killer and not just a couple of unfortunate, isolated homicides.”

“Respectfully, Ms. Sitwell,” Beeler replied, his tone patient, “I wouldn’t have called for federal assistance if I wasn’t seriously concerned about the pattern emerging here.”

“To make matters worse,” Sitwell continued, a frown marring her otherwise composed face, “I’m at a loss when faced with the local media’s questions. They’re becoming increasingly agitated, pressing for answers I simply don’t have. You’ve told me very little, almost nothing.”

“We’ve got to keep details out of the public eye,” Beeler said.

“Does that mean keeping them away from me?” Sitwell asked, her tone sharpening. “I have to tell them something, and it needs to be reassuring rather than alarming.”

Despite her personal dislike of the director, her frustration resonated with Riley—a feeling all too familiar from her own encounters with the press during intense investigations. She recognized the importance of managing the narrative, especially when fear could spread faster than facts.

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley interjected smoothly, “we understand the position you’re in. Rest assured, our priority is to find the truth as swiftly as possible, without causing undue alarm.”

Sitwell’s gaze shifted to Riley, searching for an assurance that might mollify her worries. Then she turned away and paced the room, her heels clicking on the polished floor.

“I need to put out some sort of statement—a media release,” she said as she paced. “Something to assure the public they’re not in imminent danger.” When she stopped and faced them again, her hands fluttered like anxious birds, touching a strand of hair, then smoothing the fabric of her blazer as she spoke. “Tourist season may be winding down, but we cannot afford to scare people right now. Or, for that matter, ever.”

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley replied, “I understand your concerns about the tourism industry here. It’s a lifeline for this community, I get it.” She paused, locking eyes with the director to ensure that her words were sinking in. “But what we’re dealing with here is not just a threat to tourism—it’s a threat to lives.”

Sitwell’s mouth opened as if she was about to object, but for a few moments no sound came out. Then she found her voice again, “So what am I supposed to tell people? We have local businesses that depend on tourists’ confidence.”

Riley thought hard for a moment. She quickly decided that a bit of brutal honesty might be in order.

“Ms. Sitwell, I’m about to show you something that I trust you won’t reveal to anybody. Once you see it, I’m sure you’ll agree that it mustn’t be made public—at least not yet.”

Riley’s thumb hovered over the screen of her cellphone, the images she was about to reveal were stark reminders of the brutality humans were capable of. She met Sitwell’s eyes, seeking an unspoken consent before swiping through the gallery.

The photos appeared: Julie Sternan and Billie Shearer posed on the beach, their lifeless forms adorned in swimsuits from eras long past.

Sitwell’s eyes darted across the digital canvas, taking in every cruel detail—the fixed stares, the unnatural poses, the sense of history corrupted. But how was she reacting internally to these images?

I can’t get a read on her, Riley thought with an odd twinge of unease.

“Good God,” Sitwell said, almost mechanically. “What is this?”

Riley explained that the women’s bodies had been found clad like this postmortem.

“Two victims, two different times and places, yet a pattern that’s more than coincidence,” Riley stated flatly. “You asked what you should do. We need your help to protect the public without sparking undue fear or confusion. For example, we can’t reveal the information about the vintage swimsuits. That could really blow back against our whole investigation.”

Sitwell looked up from the phone. “How can I help? What do you suggest?”

Riley considered her words carefully. She had done this before—balancing the need for public awareness with the risk of causing hysteria.

“A lot of people already know about the deaths. We should issue a warning to the community, particularly women, alerting them to be vigilant. Throughout the Outer Banks, they should avoid being out and about alone. We keep it general: no specifics about the swimsuits or the manner of death. Just enough to encourage caution, not panic.”

“Will that be enough?” Ann Marie chimed in, her voice laced with concern.

“It has to be,” Riley replied, looking at Sitwell. “For now.”

“Alright,” Sitwell conceded. “I’ll issue a general warning and hold off on any of that specific information until you give the go-ahead. Just... please, keep me informed.”

Riley nodded at this gesture of cooperation, but she studied Sitwell’s face a moment too long for either of their comfort. Finally it dawned on her that she’d contended with Sitwell’s type too many times to count—a bureaucrat so devoted to appearances and political necessities that her reactions to human tragedy had been long since dulled.

Not much of a person there, she thought.

But Riley knew better than to be surprised. It was an old, old story. She turned, more than ready to get out of the office and return to the tangible elements of the case, where she felt more at home. She and her two colleagues left the building and returned to Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser.

“Let’s hope the message gets through to the public,” Beeler grunted as he unlocked the doors, his seasoned features set in a grim line.

Riley slid silently into the passenger seat, her thoughts already leaping ahead to what awaited them. She felt the familiar tug of responsibility, the relentless drive that both propelled and haunted her.

As the cruiser pulled away, Riley let her gaze drift across the quaint townscape of Teomoc.

“Scudmore’s about half an hour from here,” Beeler stated as he checked the rearview mirror before merging onto the highway leading out of Teomoc. “I’ll show you the crime scene. Then we’ll continue south to Sandhaven.”

Riley nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, the Outer Banks slipping by like frames in an old movie reel. Her mind, however, was far from the tranquility outside. She could feel the undercurrents of this case pulling at her, and she braced herself mentally for whatever lay ahead.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A young man who wasn’t a student settled into a worn seat at the back of the Jefferson Bell University classroom, his tall frame folding into the small desk. The room around him buzzed with the chatter of first-year students, their voices a blend of nerves and excitement, but his mind was elsewhere.

His gaze cut through the throng, staring at a young woman three rows ahead, admiring the dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she turned the pages of her textbook. For him, she was the bright spot in the sea of fresh faces. The other students were mere background noise, their questions and comments fading into insignificance.

Leo Dillard was the silent observer, his presence looming unseen in the bright afternoon light. He had perfected the Art of blending in, and his neat appearance and carefully practiced attitude marked him as just another late enrollee rather than the outsider he truly was. Even Professor Winters had been charmed by his request to audit her class, unaware of the deceptive currents beneath his serene surface.

As the lecture began, Leo leaned back, feigning interest in the discussion of American politics. But every word April Paige contributed to the discussion, every slight movement she made, was cataloged in the recesses of his mind. She was the key, the unwitting pawn in a game she didn’t even know she was playing. She was oblivious to the danger that sat mere feet away, a predator cloaked in the guise of scholarly interest.

April’s hand shot up, eager to contribute to the debate, and Leo’s eyes narrowed, fixated on the subtle gestures that accompanied her words. As she commanded the room’s attention, his thoughts churned with plans and possibilities. And despite the warmth of the September afternoon filtering through the classroom windows, a chill ran down Leo’s spine as he watched April engage in the academic discourse. He’d already seen the passion for justice that shone in her hazel eyes—so like her mother’s—when she joined class discussions.

It wasn’t the subject matter that held his attention; it was the way she spoke, the confidence that resonated in her voice—a mirror to her mother’s own assertive tone. Every inflection, every reasoned argument she offered, only served to stoke the fire he felt burning inside.

Leo’s mind was tumultuous, his thoughts constantly crashing back to that day in Riley’s office—the day she had spurned him. He could practically hear the click of her heels against the floor, the tightness of her voice as she rejected him, the cold finality of the door closing on whatever fantasy he had allowed himself to indulge in. It was a visceral cut, a wound to his ego that still festered.

He clenched the pen, a vice of indignant fury. He could still taste the bitterness of rejection—the way Riley Paige had so effortlessly dismissed his advances, her expression unyielding. And not only that, she had reported him to her superiors, ending his expectations of shining in a high-ranking FBI position. A sense of injustice boiled within him, fueled by a flame that refused to be quenched by reason or time.

As Professor Winters expounded on the complexities of electoral systems, Leo’s pen moved almost autonomously, jotting down not the intricacies of political mechanisms but the nuances of April’s existence. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the slight tilt of her head when contemplation took her, the exact shade of ink in the pens she used—blue, always blue. These details were his lifeline, a connection to a world he felt owed him something profound, something that had been unjustly denied. Each note was an affirmation of the perceived injustice and a silent vow to rectify it.

As if summoned by his brooding thoughts, April raised her hand, her voice cutting through the classroom clamor with a question about the Electoral College.

Leo’s attention, momentarily adrift in the sea of his rancor, snapped back to her. There was a sharpened focus in his eyes, a predatory fixation on the subject of his vengeance. As April spoke, he observed her confidence echoing her mother’s, her intellect just as piercing. It was a stark reminder of what he felt had been stolen from him, fueling the growing fire of his anger. In the margins of his notebook, now a canvas of his vendetta, Leo scratched out his rage in ink, each word a step closer to retribution.

As the dialogue in the room swelled, Leo’s pen raced across the paper, capturing every syllable that fell from April’s lips rather than what the teacher said. His handwriting became a frenetic scrawl, an external manifestation of his internal turmoil.

Analyzing her tone, her assuredness, he marveled—and seethed—at the likeness she bore to Riley. The same combination of beauty and sharp intellect that had once drawn him to her mother now taunted him from the rows ahead, embodied in the youthful form of her daughter. The similarities were uncanny, and they stung; it was as though Riley herself sat before him, yet again out of reach but this time in the guise of her offspring.

The lecture progressed, but Leo’s mind wandered down a much darker path, one where his elaborate schemes took shape, fueled by the intensity of his emotions. With each passing day, his plans grew more elaborate, his determination more fervent.

The bell rang, slicing through his contemplations like a verdict, and the class began to disperse. The students around him were abuzz with the energy of newfound knowledge, but their chatter faded into a dull hum against the pounding of his heart. His fingers lingered on his notes, feigning interest in the last remnants of Professor Winters’ lecture. But his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, followed April’s every move.

With each item she placed into her bag, a spark of anticipation ignited within Leo. Her movements were graceful, her interactions effortless, and as she slung her backpack over one shoulder and waved goodbye to her classmate, a sense of impending triumph coursed through him. His gaze never wavered from April as she navigated through the maze of desks and students, her laughter seeming to mock him.

He watched, rooted to the spot until she vanished around the corner. Then, as if released from a spell, he slowly stood up, his mind racing with visions of what was to come. This was just the beginning, the opening act of a drama that would unfold under his careful direction. And as the doorway swallowed her figure, Leo felt a magnetic pull in her wake—a pull he was all too eager to follow.

He stood still for a moment, watching the empty space where April had disappeared. The corridor buzzed with students shuffling to their next commitment, but Leo’s focus remained unshaken. He knew what lay ahead in her day – the structured routine of an eager freshman, a pattern he’d learned as if it were his own. His eyes flickered down to the closed notebook in his hands. Inside, the pages contained more than just scribbles of schedules; they held power, a meticulously crafted map to Riley Paige’s downfall.

As the last of the students filed out, leaving behind a quiet that echoed against the walls, Leo slid the notebook into his bag, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. It wasn’t just a smirk; it was the silent acknowledgment of a plan falling into place. He moved toward the door, steps measured and unhurried, blending seamlessly into the current of students in the hallway.

The afternoon light cast long shadows across the grounds as he emerged from the building. He kept a discreet distance from April’s path, a ghost trailing behind the vibrancy of college life. To the unsuspecting eye, he might have been any other student lost in thought, but there was nothing aimless about Leo Dillard. He’d been a ghost on this campus since the semester began, a specter haunting her footsteps. His notebook held a map of her life at Jefferson Bell University. Every morning jog, each casual coffee break, all chronicled with the meticulous detail of a seasoned investigator. To Leo, these details were not an invasion but a rightful claim, pieces of a puzzle that would eventually lead Riley to realize the depth of her error.

But now, this was no longer just surveillance; it was the careful crafting of a revenge that would soon unfold. In his mind, he was not just stalking April - he was crafting the perfect revenge against Riley Paige, a plan that would soon make her regret ever ignoring him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Riley gazed at the transitions they were driving through as Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser made its way southward along the Outer Banks. The scenery shifted from vibrant clusters of beach houses and sun-soaked families to more solitary stretches where wild grasses swayed and the ocean was separated from the road by sand dunes.

The vehicle passed through small villages where time appeared to have paused, preserving the small-town Americana of a bygone era.

“Would you look at that?” Ann Marie murmured, gazing at picket fences and mom-and-pop shops, a small-town serenity that seemed far removed from their pursuit.

Riley nodded, her gaze lingering on the quaint fishing boats bobbing in the harbor, their colorful hulls reflecting the late afternoon sun.

“Strange,” Riley mused aloud, “how life seems to go on undisturbed just a few miles from where tragedy struck.”

Beeler glanced at her. “The Outer Banks is a landscape of contrasts, alright,” he said. “And it’s a place of shifts and changes. Nothing ever stays the same. And …”

Beeler paused thoughtfully, then added, “Well, I’ve lived here all my life, and it seems to me that things are seldom what they seem in these parts. It’s like the shades of pirates and drownings and shipwrecks still hold these shores in their thrall.”

Riley was struck by the note of awe in Beeler’s voice. She doubted that he’d had to deal with many murders in his jurisdiction. But he was clearly a man not unused to the unexpected.

After they’d passed through a little village called Scudmore, Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser slowed to a stop. Riley glanced out the window at the desolate stretch of land, where undulating dunes rose next to the road. The Outer Banks held a raw beauty that was alluring, but also menacing now, with murders hidden behind the scenery.

“Here we are,” Beeler announced.

They all stepped out and saw that the dunes weren’t high here, and they were held in place with patches of grass and weeds. The rhythmic sound of distant waves served as a haunting backdrop as Beeler led them along a narrow path that wound among the mounds. Sea oats swayed gently, their tips brushing against Riley’s arms, leaving faint trails on the fabric of her jacket.

Ann Marie observed, “Not an easy path for a killer dragging a chair and a body.”

“Followed this very route,” Beeler acknowledged. “We could see scuff marks, but just like before, no identifiable footprints.

As they rounded the final dune, a crime scene tent came into view, a blight on the otherwise untouched landscape. An armed officer stood guard, and Riley nodded to him as they passed, an acknowledgment of their shared duty.

As Riley’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside the tent, she saw the unfolded beach chair upon which Julie Sternan’s body had been found sitting at the center, marked by yellow tape. Two victims, two chairs, two days apart—the pattern was emerging, but the meaning remained out of reach.

“A local fisherman found her here,” Beeler said, “two mornings before Billie Shearer’s body was discovered. It was his favorite fishing spot, although he didn’t come out here on any regular schedule.”

As Riley circled the chair, but it offered no clues. Like the other one, it was well-used, but they weren’t a match in design or color. The chairs were both nondescript, the type one might overlook at a garage sale or find abandoned at a beach house rental. There were no unique markings, no manufacturer’s tags left intact, nothing that could tie it to a specific place or person. Like the chair at the other crime scene, this one was worn down by time and elements, making its origins virtually untraceable.

She ran her fingers along the armrest, feeling the rough texture, picturing the killer doing the same after setting the stage for this display. A nagging thought tugged at the edge of her consciousness, a realization that in spite of the mismatches, these chairs must have been chosen for a reason.

She pulled out her phone and studied the photos of Julie Sternan, captured at the moment she had been discovered. The scene was unsettling: Julie lay there, clad in a striking turquoise one-piece swimsuit adorned with bold, geometric patterns that clashed vividly with the natural surroundings. And it had already been established that neither body had been dressed in a swimsuit that belonged to them. Each crime scene had been meticulously staged, and the victims dressed with care to indicate a different period in time.

Sheriff Beeler’s voice broke through her concentration. “Anything?” he asked.

“Just thinking about the staging,” Riley muttered as she gazed at the scene. It was evident that this was far more than a mere act of a killer disposing of bodies; each setting was a statement, a carefully orchestrated performance.

But what drove this killer to such lengths? What was the obsession with swimsuits from different eras? The vibrant colors and textures contrasted starkly against the lifeless bodies. Changing clothes on a deceased victim was no trivial task. It required a significant amount of effort and precision, especially since it had to be done immediately after death, before the onset of rigor mortis rendered it impossible.

Riley glanced at Ann Marie, giving her a subtle nod—an unspoken invitation to dive into the analytical depths. She saw the potential in the younger agent, the eagerness to dissect the macabre puzzle before them. She must be allowed every opportunity to hone her skills.

Following a different train of thought, Ann Marie asked the Sheriff, “Julie Sternan went missing from Sandhaven, near her home, correct?”

Beeler nodded, his face etched with the weight of responsibility. “That’s right. Her husband reported her missing when she didn’t return from her swim.”

“Swimming alone, then taken... her body ends up here, miles away,” Ann Marie continued, each word marked by a thoughtful pause. “So, the question is why? Why bring her all the way out here?”

“Exactly,” Beeler agreed, his voice a blend of appreciation and concern. “It doesn’t make any sense. We’re hoping you folks can shed some light on that.”

“Billie Shearer’s body was found far from where she was last seen, too,” Ann Marie continued, thinking out loud. “Moving bodies of victims is the mark of a particular kind of killer. When it’s not a matter of hiding what has happened, it’s usually because the killer has a specific plan in mind. Sometimes that’s to create a particular setting—as in this case. But in spite of the exact staging, there’s no pattern in the places the women were taken or in the distances or directions they were moved.”

Riley nodded slowly, watching as Ann Marie’s blue eyes scanning the crime scene with precision. She wanted to encourage the way Ann Marie pieced bits of information together; it reminded Riley of her own process.

“Anything else you’re seeing?” Sheriff Beeler asked, his voice hopeful.

“Could that apparent randomness of location be deliberate?” Ann Marie considered. “A tactic to throw us off, make it harder to track them down.”

Riley silently agreed, allowing Ann Marie’s analysis to fill the space. It was sound thinking. Sometimes serial killers made randomness part of their M.O.

“Whoever did this...” Ann Marie trailed off, her brows knitting together once more. “If they’re being deliberately unpredictable, then we’re dealing with someone who understands how investigations work. They know we look for patterns, so they’re trying not to leave any that might lead to their own location.”

“They could be being careful about that,” Riley agreed, her thoughts aligning with Ann Marie’s. “But everyone makes mistakes.”

“Right,” Ann Marie responded. “But meanwhile, we have to pay attention to the things that are consistent —the timing, for example. We’ve had two victims spaced two days apart. If that’s a pattern that holds, the killer’s time frame suggests they’re preparing for their next move right now.” Her blue eyes darkened with concern. “Could be selecting someone even as we speak,” she added. “And we have no way to guess where that might take place or where another body might turn up.”

“The Outer Banks is a big place,” Beeler put in gruffly, “a set of barrier islands about 200 miles long.”

Riley felt the statement settle in her bones, heavy and inevitable. Ann Marie was right, the killer’s clock was ticking away, and they had no idea where to look.

“Beeler,” she said, glancing at the sheriff’s stoic profile, “could you give us a minute?” Her request was met with a nod, as Beeler understood the need for agents to hash things out amongst themselves.

As Beeler stepped out, the fabric walls of the tent fluttered with his departure, leaving Riley and Ann Marie enclosed in a cocoon of urgency and speculation.

“Ann Marie,” Riley began, her voice low, “we’re missing something. There’s something here we haven’t seen yet.”

She turned away, pacing the confined space, feeling the grains of sand shift beneath her shoes. Her mind raced through the details of the crime scene, the seemingly deliberate randomness, the calculated distances. There was something there, a piece of this macabre puzzle that evaded her grasp. But it was close, she could feel it lurking in the shadows of her subconscious.

Riley took a deep breath as it came to her. “I think the killer is a woman.” But her voice, typically steady and commanding, carried an unusual undertone of uncertainty.

“What makes you say that?” Ann Marie asked, her brows arching high on her forehead.

Riley hesitated, her gaze drifting to the weathered beach chair that sat at the center of the tent, its very ordinariness stark against the tapestry of death. “I can’t explain exactly why,” she admitted, feeling her intuition pressing against the walls of logic. “It has something to do with the feeling with which these scenes were staged. There’s a note of... almost nostalgia to it. Something … well, feminine, I guess.”

The two of them fell silent for a moment.

“Riley, how do you make these intuitive leaps?” Ann Marie’s voice was low, threaded with a reverence that Riley wasn’t sure she deserved. “I’ve heard rumors about your... gift, but I’ve never understood how it works.”

Riley glanced at the lonely beach chair. How did she explain something so intrinsic, so woven into the fabric of her being?

“There’s nothing supernatural or paranormal about it,” she began, her tone level as she met Ann Marie’s gaze. She took a deep breath as she searched for words. “Insights come to me differently than they do to most other agents, but just because something is intuitive doesn’t mean it isn’t based on logic.”

It was true; her gut instincts were often a patchwork of observation and experience, stitched together by an unspoken understanding of human nature. But explaining that to someone without the same internal compass was like describing color to the blind.

“Think of it as a different kind of processing,” Riley continued, watching Ann Marie absorb her words. “My mind connects dots that aren’t always immediately obvious.” She gestured vaguely towards the scene around them. “The patterns here, they evoke a certain... sentimentality. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

Ann Marie nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she digested Riley’s explanation. Silence enveloped them once more, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the shore. Riley knew the young agent had a keen mind and hoped she’d come to see that intuition was merely another tool in their investigative arsenal—one that, like any other, required fine-tuning and careful application.

“Does that make sense?” Riley asked, breaking the quiet between them. She hoped it did. She hoped Ann Marie could understand that what some called a gift was, in reality, the product of years spent walking a tightrope over the abyss of human depravity.

“Intuition is like muscle memory,” she added with a half-smile, “honed by years of practice and too many encounters with darkness.”

Ann Marie seemed to consider this, her eyes still fixed on Riley, searching for the hidden threads that wove her partner’s hunches into a coherent tapestry. There was a hunger there, a desire to grasp the elusive nature of Riley’s talent.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Riley,” Ann Marie said finally, her voice sincere.

“Sometimes we arrive at logical conclusions through unconscious processes,” Riley said, her voice steady against the drone of the wind outside the tent. “Keep in mind,” she added, “I’m by no means sure that I’m right in thinking the killer is a woman, but I feel that way pretty strongly right now. It’s just a theory we need to consider alongside others.”

Their contemplation was shattered by the insistent buzzing of Riley’s phone. She plucked it from her pocket with practiced ease, her heart rate quickening at the sight of Sam Flores’ name on the screen. The BAU tech was methodical and precise—his call would not be without reason.

“Sam,” she said, her tone sharpening with anticipation, the rustle of the tent flaps momentarily forgotten. “What have you got?”

“Riley,” came the reply, tinged with a note of breakthrough. “I’ve got something for you on those emails to Luther Shearer’s wife.”

“What have you found, Sam?”

“I’ve traced the sender,” Sam replied, his triumph ringing clear.

CHAPTER NINE

“That’s great,” Riley told Sam. “Hang on a minute, I want the Sheriff to hear this too.”

Holding her phone, Riley stepped out of the tent with Ann Marie following close behind her. She beckoned Sheriff Beeler over.

“Sam’s got something on those emails and photos Luther Shearer said his wife received,” Riley told Beeler. As he moved closer to listen, she said into the phone, “Go ahead, Sam.”

Sunlight glinted off the ocean in the distance as Sam’s voice crackled through the speaker. “I’ve traced the sender of those emails to Billie Shearer,” he declared. “It’s a man named Marcus Callahan. He’s the owner of a boat repair business in Sandhaven.”

Sheriff Beeler’s reaction was immediate; his eyes widened in a rare display of surprise. “Callahan,” he muttered, the word heavy with unspoken history.

“Sounds like you’ve heard of him,” Riley prompted, her tone carefully neutral. “What can you tell us about him, Sheriff?”

“Marcus Callahan’s been a thorn in our side for years,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “His business, Callahan’s Boat Repair, operates all along the Upper Banks. He’s got a reputation for being... difficult, especially with women.”

Ann Marie leaned forward, “Difficult how?” she prodded, mirroring Riley’s own need for details.

“Well,” Sheriff Beeler began, “we actually arrested him once on stalking charges. More than one woman has complained about him. One filed a legal complaint after he wouldn’t stop harassing her. But the justice system failed us that time. He got off with a fine and mandatory counseling. If he’s behind those emails to Billie Shearer, I’d bet my badge he’s the one who sent those similar emails to Julie Sternan too.”

There wasn’t a doubt in Riley’s mind that Beeler was right, but it was necessary to make sure.

“Sam, we need you to dig into Julie Sternan’s emails as well,” Riley said.

“Got it,” Sam said with a technician’s calm. “Her info is in the case file that you sent me. I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks, Sam. We need everything you can find,” Riley replied.

“Will do,” Sam assured her before they ended the call.

The line went dead, and Riley pocketed her phone.

“So, we have two victims,” Ann Marie reiterated, her blonde hair ruffling in the ocean breeze. Her blue eyes were sharp, reflecting a mind that was always working, evaluating. “Both received anonymous emails with photos of themselves. And now we know that Marcus Callahan was behind at least one set of these emails.”

Sheriff Beeler shuffled beside them, his eyes fixed on the ground as if searching for answers in the grains of sand.

“Yes, Callahan,” he muttered. “This could be his doing. A guy like him could have moved beyond words and stalking from a distance. With these types it’s never just about emails or teasing. It’s about control.”

Control—the word resonated with Riley. Control was what killers craved, what they exerted over their victims to compensate for their own inadequacies. Maybe Callahan, if he was indeed their man, had lost control once too often.

“It seems likely he sent both sets of emails. The question is, did he escalate from stalking to murder?” Riley’s voice cut through the coastal air.

“I hate to say it, but it could fit his pattern of behavior,” Beeler admitted. “Callahan’s always had a problem with women who reject him or stand up to him. I don’t imagine he’s improved recently.”

“Then it sounds like it’s time to bring him in,” Ann Marie said.

Beeler raised a hand. “It might not be that simple. Callahan’s got a network of supporters up and down the islands. A bunch of ‘good old boys’ who share his... views on women. They might try to warn him or even help him evade arrest.”

Riley’s heart sank. She had run into that kind of tight-knit community, woven together by loyalties and secrets. If Callahan was tipped off, they could lose him in the labyrinth of local sympathies. It would take more than just a warrant to reel him in—it would take precision and perhaps a touch of subterfuge.

“All the more reason to move quickly,” she stated, her voice cutting through the stillness of the beach. “We can’t give him time to disappear.”

Beeler nodded. “You’re right. We need to head to Sandhaven right now. But we’ll need to be careful about it. If word gets out that we’re coming for Callahan, this could turn ugly fast.”

“Ann Marie, can you work with Sam to monitor any chatter among Callahan’s contacts?” Riley asked, her grey-streaked hair fluttering in the seaside breeze. “We need to know if he gets wind of us.”

“Of course,” Ann Marie replied quickly, tapping on her phone to draft a message to their tech analyst back at Quantico.

“Let’s get moving. We know that time isn’t on our side,” Beeler grumbled, leading the way back around the sand dunes towards his patrol car parked at the edge of the road.

The trek to the sheriff’s SUV was short, but Riley’s mind traversed miles of possibilities. In spite of the clarity of evidence, a whisper of doubt lingered, suggesting that not all was as it seemed. She took out her cellphone and studied the now-familiar photos of those two dead women posed postmortem on beach chairs dressed in vintage swimwear.

She couldn’t square her sense of the killer as being a man at all, perhaps especially not one prone to uncouth behavior toward women. But her intuitions hadn’t brought her anything solid enough to suggest that they investigate some other direction.

As they reached the car, Riley turned to the sheriff, “Sheriff Beeler, we’ll depend on your insight to approach this without setting off alarms.”

“Let’s keep a low profile,” Beeler suggested. “No sirens, no fanfare. We slip into town quietly. Our first stop will be the police station. Chief Thorne will be glad to assist us. He’s had trouble of his own with Callahan.”

Riley appreciated the tactic; stealth was essential when dealing with a suspect like Callahan, someone who might vanish into the wind at the first hint of trouble. As she settled into the passenger seat, she braced herself for the confrontation ahead.

As they drove southward, the Outer Banks’ panorama unfolded—a vast, serene backdrop to a storm brewing within Riley. She thought of the victims, their strength and ambition snuffed out in a moment of violence. Could the man they were pursuing have snatched away those lives in a fit of rejection-fueled rage? Or was she overlooking an essential piece of this puzzle? If she was wrong about the killer being a woman, what else might she have missed?

The drive was uneventful, a quiet prelude to what could be a storm of resistance. As they neared Sandhaven, Riley’s phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket and saw Bill’s name on the screen. She glanced at Beeler and Ann Marie, who were still discussing the best approach for enlisting the local police’s cooperation, and thumbed the screen.

“Checking in,” read the message. “How’s it going?”

She replied with brisk efficiency. “Traced the emails to a Marcus Callahan in Sandhaven. A possibility.”

“Not a sure thing?”

“I wish,” Riley typed back with a sigh. “But he sounds like an unpleasant character. Heading to possibly arrest him.”

“Wish I was there,” came his almost immediate response. “Be careful.”

“Will do,” she typed back, her own pulse quickening at the thought of what lay ahead. “No need to worry.”

“Sorry, but worry is part of my job,” he sent back, followed by a heart emoji.

“Love you,” she responded, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that had little to do with the North Carolina heat.

Slipping the phone back into her pocket, Riley realized that her partner was looking at her. The younger agent’s eyes held a gleam of understanding.

“Bill?” Ann Marie asked, her tone light with curiosity.

Riley’s lips curved into a half-smile. “He worries,” she admitted, her voice tinged with affection.

“So what did you tell him?” Ann Marie pressed gently.

“I told him there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Ann Marie chuckled, echoing Riley’s silent thoughts.

The conversation waned, leaving Riley to mull over the day’s developments. She’d built a career on profiling criminals, delving into the darkest recesses of the human psyche. Now, as the evidence pointed to Callahan, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something fundamental. Could her initial theory have been wrong?

“Sandhaven is coming up,” Beeler announced.

“Callahan’s territory,” Ann Marie murmured, reviewing the notes on her tablet.

Their vehicle slowed as they entered the town, which was a stark change from the bustling beach communities they had seen on the North Carolina coast. The windows of shops lining the sidewalks displayed practical goods essential for daily life. The homes they drove past were sturdy, but looked like they’d weathered more than just storms.

“Where’s the rustic charm?” Riley muttered under her breath.

“Agent Paige?” Sheriff Beeler’s voice cut through her reverie.

“Sorry, just thinking aloud,” she replied.

The streets here were quiet, with only a few locals walking or biking. Even so, as they drove through the town, Riley could feel the glares that followed them. She understood that this was a community shaped by the rigors and rhythms of a hardworking life on the water. The locals here didn’t seem to have any interest in the tourist trade, and they didn’t look happy to see a newly-arrived sheriff’s cruiser.

Riley couldn’t help but make some comparisons. She had grown up in small towns in the mountains, and those towns had been isolated too. But she didn’t think the people living there had been as resistant as these seemed to be to be outsiders. She reminded herself that she was remembering those towns as an insider, and a child at that. But even so, she sensed a particular hostility here.

Their vehicle slowed as they neared the marina, where the local fishermen moored their boats. The majority of the fleet was out at sea, a few silhouettes visible against the horizon. In the marina, just a handful of solitary vessels swayed gently in the waters.

Seagulls wheeled and spiraled high overhead, their piercing cries echoing across the sky, their white bodies glinting in the sunlight. Every so often, one would dive with swift precision to snatch one of the floating scraps that were occasionally tossed onto the water.

Riley found herself examining the boats as they passed. Utilitarian in design with sturdy hulls and practical layouts, they weren’t designed for speed or glamour. These were working vessels, outfitted with fishing equipment rather than sun decks. They did seem to be carefully maintained, their paint reasonably fresh and their decks tidy, in stark contrast to the weathered houses they had just driven by.

“Callahan’s Boat Repair is on the east end of the marina,” Beeler said. “That part of the marina is a labyrinth of docks and workshops. Easy to get lost if you don’t know where you’re going.”

“Which means we’ll need all the help we can get,” Ann Marie added, her tone serious as she turned to look at Riley and then back to Beeler.

“Exactly,” Beeler said, nodding. “We’re heading to the police station first. We’ll need the local chief’s help with this. He can help us coordinate the arrest without raising any more alarm than we need to.”

They were about to confront more than just a suspect—they were stepping into a tightly knit community where Callahan might have eyes and ears everywhere. The prospect of enlisting local law enforcement offered some reassurance, but Riley knew from experience that trust had to be earned, and that seemed especially clear in this fisherman’s town.

Again, she wondered about her earlier hit on the sense that the killer was a woman. If she was right, what did it mean for the investigation—for the arrest they were planning to make? Right now, none of the evidence seemed likely to connect with her belief that a woman’s hand was behind these murders. The possibility that Marcus Callahan might be their killer clouded her earlier conviction.

Does that mean I’m losing my edge? she wondered.

The notion prowled around her mind, feral and unwelcome. Profiling was her craft, honed over years of delving into the darkest corners of human behavior. To question it was to question her very identity within the BAU.

She swallowed hard at her spasm of self-doubt. It wasn’t like her at all—at least not before she’d given up field work for teaching. And with an impending arrest of a likely suspect at hand, she needed to keep her confidence high.

Focus, she told herself. Remember who you are.

Now was no time to forget that she was Special Agent Riley Paige.

CHAPTER TEN

Riley felt eyes upon them as the sheriff’s blue and white cruiser rolled through Sandhaven’s main street. The town, with its weathered buildings, felt worn rather than welcoming.

“Feels like stepping into an old photograph,” Ann Marie whispered beside her.

Riley watched through the car window as locals paused mid-step to scrutinize the vehicle, their gazes tinged with suspicion. She recognized this type of curiosity; it was rooted in caution and mistrust. The FBI badge she carried did not grant her any favors here—she was an outsider, possibly a threat.

Sheriff Beeler turned the car into the small parking lot of the Sandhaven Police Headquarters, a modest structure that mirrored the town’s no-frills, utilitarian approach to life. Beeler parked the car, gravel crunching under tires announcing their arrival.

As Riley stepped out, she caught sight of a group of fishermen across the street. Their conversation dwindled into silence, their eyes fixed on the newcomers.

“Welcome to Sandhaven,” Beeler said dryly, closing his car door with a definitive thud.

A bell above the door announced their entry with a jarring ring. As Riley stepped across the threshold, she saw a man who could only be Police Chief Rick Thorne. His stocky frame was like an old tree stump—solid and unyielding. The lines in his face spoke of storms weathered and battles endured. His blue eyes, sharp as shards of ice, met hers with an intensity that felt almost tangible.

“Chief Thorne,” Beeler said. They shook hands, then Beeler gestured towards Riley and Ann Marie.

“My companions are FBI Agents, here to help with the Shearer and Sternan cases.”

Thorne’s response was just an upward twitch of his eyebrows.

“I’m Special Agent Paige,” Riley said, then glanced at Ann Marie as she added, “And this is my partner, Special Agent Esmer.”

Thorne nodded, a motion as purposeful as everything else about him.

“I take it the two of you are here because of our recent murders here on the Outer Banks,” he said.

“That’s right,” Riley said.

“I called for the FBI’s assistance, Sheriff Beeler explained.

“Not a bad idea,” Thorne said with a monosyllabic chuckle. “We could use some help.”

Then he extended his hand to Riley. “Welcome to Sandhaven,” he said.

The skin was rough like sandpaper, and the grasp very firm, almost challenging.

“Thank you, Chief,” she responded.

He gestured to an open office door, and the three investigators followed him inside. Thorne took his seat behind his cluttered desk, and Riley settled into a creaking wooden chair across from him. There was only one other vacant chair, and Beeler indicated that Ann Marie should take it.

Sheriff Beeler leaned against a filing cabinet, his voice breaking the silence. “We’re here because the FBI has traced those emails and photos that were sent to one Billie Shearer. And we’re sure that those messages sent to Billie Shearer came from the same source.”

“And who might that be?” Thorne asked.

“Marcus Callahan,” Beeler said.

Thorne’s chair groaned as he reclined. “Callahan,” he muttered, the lines on his face deepening with weariness. His reaction was a clear confirmation of the man’s notoriety. “Can’t say I’m surprised. That man’s been a thorn in our side for years.”

Riley leaned forward, her elbows resting on the edge of the scarred wooden surface separating them. “What can you tell us about him, Chief Thorne?”

“Persistent troublemaker,” Thorne spat out. “Toeing the line just enough to stay out of cuffs, at least most of the time. It’s like he knows how far he can push it without crossing over. Smart, in a devious sort of way.”

“Has he ever shown violent tendencies? Anything physical?” Riley asked.

“Violence? No, not other than ordinary skirmishes, often with his own friends,” Thorne admitted reluctantly. “You know, barroom brawls, that kind of thing. But his type, they’re all about power, control. Wouldn’t put it past him to escalate.”

“Any known associates we should be aware of?” Riley pressed. “Anyone who might corroborate his story or give him an alibi?”

“Plenty,” Thorne responded. “He’s got cronies, yes-men who hang on his every word. They work for him, drink with him, cover for him. You won’t get a straight answer out of any of them.”

The chief’s hand ran through thinning hair—a gesture of exasperation and inevitability that spoke volumes about the difficulty of his job in this unruly community. “Questioning Callahan won’t be straightforward. He’s slippery, and you can bet he’ll be tipped off the moment we make a move.”

Ann Marie chimed in, “Sheriff Beeler mentioned a previous arrest for stalking?”

Thorne’s nod was slow, pained. “Yeah, that was a few years back.” His expression darkened as if recalling a particularly troublesome memory. “A tourist filed a complaint after he wouldn’t stop harassing her. We arrested him, but...” He let out a breath that carried with it the burden of unresolved justice. “But he got off with a fine and mandatory counseling. His lawyer argued it was all a misunderstanding.”

“Sounds like he’s good at playing the system,” Riley mused, her thoughts tracing the outlines of a man adept at manipulation.

Thorne grunted in agreement, his jaw setting in a hard line. “Too good.” The room seemed to settle into a quiet understanding, a shared recognition that they were dealing with someone who had learned to play just along the edge of the law—perhaps until now.

“Who represented him?” Riley inquired, knowing that the answer might shed light on how Callahan managed to evade more serious consequences.

“Local attorney named Stuart Ludwig,” Thorne replied, his disdain apparent. “A real sleaze, an ambulance chaser. But not a guy to be underestimated. He knows everyone and everything about this town. Makes it his business to keep it that way.”

“Now that we know that Callahan sent those emails, we’ve got enough on him to bring him in.”

“Well, then, I’d say it’s high time we did just that,” the police chief declared. He got to his feet, his hand resting on the holster at his hip as he added, “But be aware that Callahan’s not going to come quietly. He’s got a network of supporters all over town. If they even get a hint that something’s coming down, they might try to warn him or even help him evade arrest.”

His words were heavy with the kind of weary resignation that came from years of fighting and often losing battles within his own jurisdiction. Yet, there was still a fire behind those piercing blue eyes—a steadfast determination that Riley recognized.

“I think the four of us should be able to handle it,” Thorne added, patting the sidearm as if to reassure himself.

Riley felt the weight of her own weapon against her side, a familiar comfort.

They all got into Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser, and he drove them toward the marina. Men who were clustered on street corners paused mid-conversation, their attention shifting to follow the passing police vehicle, then turned away just as Riley tried to meet their gaze.

The sheer masculinity of the place was jarring. It was as if the town itself was an embodiment of the outdated beliefs that seemed to permeate its very foundations—a stark reminder of why they were here. But something didn’t fit for Riley. Her mind circled back to an earlier hunch, the incongruous thought that amidst this bastion of testosterone—that the killer might be a woman.

Sheriff Beeler guided the cruiser into a parking spot across from Callahan’s Boat Repair. The building, like an old sailor, bore the scars of countless storms, its sign bleached by relentless sun and lashed by salty winds.

The door creaked open to reveal a spartan interior where the smell of varnish was strong enough to taste. Several men looked up from their tasks, hands stilling on sandpaper and wrenches. Their gazes lingered not with curiosity, but with a silent challenge. Riley acknowledged them with a nod, alert to every shift in their body language.

They continued on into front office, where a pair of weathered locals sat hunched over a game of dominoes. The clack of ivory tiles punctuated the tense silence that descended as Riley and her companions entered.

“Two FBI Agents are here to ask a few questions,” Thorne announced. The two men offered no greeting, their focus returning to the game as if the intrusion was nothing more than a passing annoyance.

Thorne made the introductions. “These are Agents Paige and Esmer, FBI,” he stated, “You might have met Sheriff Beeler before. Agents, this is Amos Dunkelberg and Art Butler.”

Dunkelberg, a man whose skin was tanned by years under a merciless sun, leaned back in his chair, his lips twitching into a half-smile. Art Butler casually flicked a domino onto the table.

“FBI, huh?” Amos drawled, his voice slow and thick. Then he placed another domino, the click echoing mockingly in the tight space. There was a story behind those eyes, Riley thought—a narrative spun from many such encounters.

“Just what’s your business?” Art chimed in, his tone matching his companion’s.

“We’re here to have a word with Marcus.”

“Well, ain’t that interesting,” Art said, sliding a domino into position.

“Sure is, Amos,” Amos said.

“Don’t suppose you know where the boss is, do ya?” Art asked.

“Can’t say that I do,” Amos responded, stroking his chin as though deep in thought. “How ‘bout you?”

“Nope, no idea,” Art replied with a shrug.

Chief Thorne’s hand clamp onto Art Butler’s grimy collar and hauled the man to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor with a grating.

“Listen here,” Thorne growled, his face mere inches from Art’s, eyes boring into the man with an intensity that could scorch. “We’re not playing games. Where’s Callahan?”

The room seemed to contract, the air thickening with tension. Riley’s instincts flared, honed from years of navigating perilous situations where violence hung precariously in balance. She readied herself for what might come next, her hand inching subtly toward her holster just in case restraint gave way to aggression.

Art’s reaction, however, was not what Riley expected. He remained unflappable, a cool contrast to Thorne’s heated aggression. With a steady hand, he reached up and calmly disengaged the chief’s grip from his shirt.

“Like we said, we don’t know where he is,” Art spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “But feel free to have a look around the docks. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

Thorne released a slow breath, his shoulders dropping as he took a measured step back. Art straightened his shirt, a smug tilt to his lips as he resumed his seat.

“Fine,” Thorne muttered, his tone suggesting that this was far from over. He turned to Sheriff Beeler and Riley with a silent signal that it was time to leave. As they moved towards the door, the clatter of dominos resumed behind them, a mocking reminder of the impasse they faced.

Riley observed the silent exchange between him and Sheriff Beeler. They were two men in agreement, a wordless pact to continue their pursuit despite the obstacles. “Alright,” Thorne grumbled with a resolve that seemed to harden his features even more.

Riley followed them out of the office, her senses heightened. There was a prickling at the back of her neck, an instinctive alert to the scrutiny she felt from all angles. They regrouped near the entrance of Callahan’s Boat Repair, frustration marking the lines on Beeler’s face and the furrowed brow of Chief Thorne.

Riley leaned against the side of the police cruiser, her arms crossed as she scanned the faces of the Sandhaven locals. Their eyes still darted away when they met hers, their mouths tight-lipped. The salty breeze did little to clear the cloying sense of secrecy that seemed to hang over the docks like a fog.

“They all know exactly where he is,” she said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking. Her gaze lingered on a cluster of men who huddled together, whispering furtively before dispersing at her notice.

“What about another round of questioning with Amos and Art?” Ann Marie suggested, her voice tinged with that persistent cheerfulness that seemed incongruous amid the tension. “I mean at the police station, and one at a time. Maybe their memories would be better there.”

Riley watched Beeler’s reaction, noting the slight shake of his head before he even spoke. “We’re not going to get anything out of them, not even there.”

“No point in trying,” Thorne agreed with Riley, dismissing the idea with a gruff finality. “They’ll just keep playing dumb.” His piercing blue eyes narrowed as he stared off toward the marina, and then Riley saw a shift in his demeanor.

He paused for a moment. A thoughtful look crossed his weathered face, a spark igniting in his gaze. Riley recognized that expression—it was one she often saw in the mirror when a crucial piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“But I think I know where to find Callahan,” Thorne told them.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“There’s a bar we should check,” Thorne said. “The Horseshoe Crab Lounge. If Callahan’s not at work, it’s a good bet that he’s there.” He gave directions, and the patrol car with its agents and lawmen nosed its way through Sandhaven streets that curved along the waterfront like question marks.

Riley sifted through the morning’s encounters in this place where toughness was currency and trust was as scarce as shade in the dunes. She allowed herself to relax marginally, though the tension didn’t fully leave her shoulders

Soon the Horseshoe Crab Lounge loomed before them, as worn and weathered as the fishing vessels that bobbed in Sandhaven’s marina. Neon beer signs flickered weakly in the grimy windows.

They parked in the lot, and as they got out of the car, the laughter they heard spilling out from the bar carried the distinct undertone of revelry. Riley’s hand moved instinctively to her jacket, checking the reassuring weight of her service weapon. She double-checked the holster’s snap release, a habit born from years of experience.

They stepped into a dimly lit world where Riley’s senses were assaulted by the stench of stale beer and sudden gloom. But in spite of the laughter they had heard from outside, the room seemed to be barely inhabited.

Chief Thorne led the way to the bar where a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and arms like dock ropes stood, wiping glasses with a cloth that had long since seen better days, and that didn’t offer much assurance of cleanliness. Riley watched him for a sign, any tell that might indicate what they were walking into. But the bartender’s face gave away nothing as he watched the police chief and his companions approach.

Chief Thorne offered a terse introduction. “Pete,” he began, tipping his head. “These are Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI. And this is Sheriff Beeler.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the bartender said with a smirk.

“We’re looking for Marcus Callahan,” Thorne said.

The man named Pete paused, the glass in his hand coming to rest on the worn surface of the bar. “FBI, huh?” His tone was indifferent, “What makes you think Callahan would be here?”

“Cut the act, Pete. Is he here or not?” Chief Thorne’s tone sharpened.

Pete responded with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Why do you think I’d know? And even if he was, why would I tell you?” He leaned back, arms resting against the counter. The briefest flicker of his eyes toward a door at the back did not escape Riley’s notice.

Sheriff Beeler’s voice was a low rumble of warning. “Pete, I hope you remember it’s a crime to lie to law enforcement officials.”

Pete’s smirk stretched languidly across his face, a thin veneer of amusement masking the tension in the room. “Now, Sheriff, what lies have I told? All I’ve done is answer questions with questions. Is that against the law? Not that last I heard.”

Riley’s attention shifted as a raucous burst of laughter sounded from beyond an archway at the rear of the bar. She caught the change in Chief Thorne’s demeanor; his eyes narrowed, fixating on the source of the noise.

“Is that an afternoon poker game going on back there, Pete?” Thorne’s inquiry was casual.

Pete, the embodiment of nonchalance, shrugged once more, but his silence spoke volumes.

Thorne’s gaze then flicked toward Riley, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “Say, Agent Paige, didn’t you mention earlier that you love a good poker game?”

Of course, Riley had told him no such thing. But catching on to Thorne’s ploy, she suppressed a smile and played along with the ruse. “That’s right, Chief. Nothing like a friendly game of cards to unwind after a long day.” The ease with which she delivered her reply might have fooled anyone listening.

Thorne pivoted back to Pete with an enthusiasm that was almost convincing. His performance was for the sake of their mission, yet Riley couldn’t help feeling admiration for his ability to switch gears so seamlessly.

“Well, how about that! Maybe we can get Agent Paige here a seat at the table. What do you say, Pete?” Thorne asked, the words like a challenge.

Pete’s face darkened. His lips pressed into a thin line, a clear sign of his reluctance. “It’s a private game.”

“Come on, Pete,” Thorne’s voice took on a chiding tone, “this is a public establishment. Besides, Agent Paige here has come all the way from Quantico. Is this how we welcome visitors to Sandhaven?”

“It’s a man’s game,” Pete growled. “At least as far as the guys here are concerned.”

“Now, is that any way to talk to a lady?” Beeler put in.

Pete stood rooted behind the bar, showing annoyance now. The suggestion of joining the poker game clearly didn’t sit well with him. He was accustomed to the closed circle of Sandhaven, where outsiders remained just that—outsiders. But more than that, he was covering for someone. And it wasn’t hard to guess who that might be.

Riley just held her position, her eyes steady on Pete, standing her ground, an expression of friendly anticipation on her face.

But Thorne didn’t wait for consent or denial; his decision was made.

“Come on, let’s get you in the game,” he said.

With a purposeful stride, he led the way through the dimly-lit bar towards the secluded archway at the back. Riley followed close behind, her senses heightened. They passed through the threshold into a small room clouded with smoke that clung to the walls like fog.

The scene before them was one of casual debauchery. Four men, entrenched in their game, were surrounded by the remnants of spent cigarettes and half-empty glasses. Cards were fanned out across the green felt surface, alongside towers of chips that rose and fell with each hand played. The stench of stale beer mingled with the acrid tang of smoke, creating an olfactory backdrop to the tension that suddenly thrummed through the room.

The chatter ceased. Silence engulfed the room. Every eye turned toward the interlopers, sizing up the challenge they represented.

Riley’s gaze cut through the haze, cataloguing details, piecing together the psychological puzzle presented by these men who found solace in the cards. It was a temporary escape, a means to assert control in a world where they felt other rewards slipping away. Among the wary gazes, one stood out to Riley – hard, calculating eyes that didn’t just observe but seemed to dissect the moment.

“Marcus,” Thorne’s words were casual. “Just the man we’ve been looking for.”

The one who glared back at him, Marcus Callahan, just sat there, solid and unmoving. His stocky frame was balanced by a self-assured poise, his age marked not by frailty but by an accumulation of experiences shown on the lines of his face. Close-cropped gray hair gave him a no-nonsense appearance, complementing the directness in his stare.

He shifted his eyes to Riley and then to her colleagues, a smirk twisting his features as if amused by the audacity of their entrance. But behind the humor lay something else – annoyance, perhaps even disdain. Riley could see that Callahan was a man accustomed to being unchallenged in his domain, and here they were, uninvited guests disrupting his kingdom of kings and queens on the playing cards.

“These are Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI,” Thorne said. “And I think you know Chief Beeler. We’d like you to come down to the station with us.”

Riley watched Callahan, the man himself an unmovable object amid the storm that had just entered his world. A smirk curved on his lips, a silent challenge in the creases of his weathered face. He leaned back, arms draped nonchalantly across the chair. Riley knew that look well—the mix of arrogance and control, the belief that he held all the cards both literally and figuratively. But the stakes were higher than the chips on the table, and the hand they were about to play wasn’t one he could bluff his way through.

“Well, now, that’s quite a request, Chief. I’m in the middle of a game here.” Callahan’s voice was gruff, dismissive as if the lawmen were no more than a minor inconvenience in his day.

“This isn’t a request, Callahan,” came Beeler’s stern interjection, his large frame a solid barrier against any escape. “We need to ask you some questions about Billie Shearer and Julie Sternan.”

A leaden silence followed, but it was there, in the briefest of moments—a flicker in Callahan’s eyes. Riley caught it, that sliver of something raw and unguarded. Surprise? Fear? It was gone too quickly for her to be sure, but it was there, a crack in the facade of indifference that Callahan had built up around himself.

Was that guilt, she wondered, or merely the shock of being cornered?

Her instincts, honed from years of profiling, told her to dig deeper. She focused on Callahan, reading him, trying to get beneath his skin. In that flicker, she had glimpsed the possibility of unraveling the mystery that had brought them all to this dingy room in Sandhaven.

Any trace of surprise or fear vanished from Callahan’s face, his features settling into an expression of stony apathy. He flicked a card down carelessly and leaned back with feigned nonchalance. “I’ll come along shortly,” he drawled, his gaze not leaving the hand he was playing. “Just let me win back some of the money I’ve lost today.”

Chief Thorne’s rugged face contorted slightly, a visible sign of his thinning patience. “That might be never. And anyway, we don’t have that kind of time, Marcus. You’re coming with us now.”

Callahan scoffed at the urgency in Thorne’s tone, tossing another glance at his cards. The tension in the room escalated like the brewing of a storm.

In an instant, Chief Thorne made his move—a calculated touch, a provocation. His hand landed heavy on Callahan’s shoulder, the physical assertion of control igniting the powder keg between them. With the reflexes of a brawler, Callahan burst from his chair, its wooden legs scraping against the floor. His fist, clenched and ready, soared toward Thorne’s expectant face.

Thorne calmly sidestepped the attack.

Meanwhile, Riley and Ann Marie sprang into seamless coordination. They converged on Callahan, their hands swift and sure as they caught his flailing limbs. They twisted his arms behind his back, subduing the violence that had erupted so suddenly. The room held its breath, the remaining poker players frozen mid-gesture, their eyes wide with shock and apprehension.

“Easy now, Callahan,” Riley grumbled close to his ear. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”

But Marcus Callahan was all snarling resistance, his body straining against their hold. The strength in his stocky frame was considerable, yet Riley and Ann Marie were resolute and impervious to the bluster of men like him. Their well-trained grips soon brought his hands together behind him.

As Riley secured his wrists with handcuffs, a sense of resolution settled over her. This was why she did what she did—why she faced off against the darkness day after day. People like Callahan needed to face whatever results their behavior had earned.

The others around the poker table went quiet, seeking to attract no attention.

Riley met Callahan’s gaze squarely as the police chief ushered him out of the back room. The look he shot back at her was a toxic mix of anger and bruised ego. It was a look she’d seen before, on the faces of men who couldn’t stand being bested, especially not by women wielding the authority they felt was theirs alone. It didn’t faze her; she knew the type well — bullies were cowards when stripped of their bluster.

The walk back through the Horseshoe Crab Lounge felt longer than the few strides it took. Pete Bowers stood silent by the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his face offering no clues to his thoughts. Thorne led the way, moving his prisoner along, while Sheriff Beeler cast a wary eye over the few silent observers still sitting at their tables. Riley and Ann Marie followed, ignoring those whose stares focused on them.

Outside the mid-afternoon sun awaited them, its golden light a welcome change after the dim recesses they had left behind. Riley took a deep breath, the sea-scented air cleansing the vestiges of cigarette smoke and antagonism from her lungs. This case seemed straightforward now, but for some reason it felt … inconclusive to her.

“Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice pulled her from her reverie, and she turned to see her partner watching her with a knowing look. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Riley replied, though ‘fine’ was a relative term. She glanced back at the bar, its peeling paint and neon signs now just part of the backdrop of their investigation. Even though they were taking in the man she wanted to question, something inside her still whispered that they were far from done with this investigation.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the Sandhaven Police Station booking area, Callahan stood at the counter, his back rigid as the officer on duty processed his information. Every so often, his head would turn, his gaze landing on Riley and Ann Marie with a venomous glare. Riley knew that his defiance spoke more of desperation than strength—a caged animal baring its teeth.

The two agents stood in mutual contemplation, the rhythm of the police station surrounding them. Occasionally, the sharp ring of a phone pierced the air, while the rapid clicks of keyboards created a staccato rhythm in the background. Riley reflected that even this small-town police station had plenty of issues to keep their force busy.

“Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “So, what do you think of our suspect?”

Riley hesitated. “Honestly? I’m not completely sure what to think,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, glancing at Callahan, she remarked with a laugh, “But he’d definitely kill the two of us if he got the chance.”

“Yeah, he sure didn’t like getting taken down by a couple of ‘girls’,” Ann Marie said with a laugh.

Neither woman was a stranger to the hostility that came with pinning down dangerous characters, especially men.

“But wanting to kill us doesn’t mean he killed those other two women,” she said. “We still don’t know.”

Ann Marie nodded, her gaze steady on Riley. “But if he’s capable of imagining our deaths so vividly...”

That was a possibility that neither could overlook — that the fury and misogyny reflected in Callahan’s eyes might have also driven him to kill.

As an officer rolled Callahan’s fingertips in ink and pressed them onto the paper, Riley saw Sheriff Smitty Beeler marching toward them with Chief Rick Thorne at his side.

“Something tells me they don’t bring good news,” Riley whispered to Ann Marie.

“Callahan’s called his lawyer,” Beeler grumbled. “Stuart Ludwig. Same ambulance-chasing creep who got him off on those stalking charges a while back.” 

Thorne added grimly. “We’d better see if we can get anything out of him before Ludwig shows up. We’re putting him in the interrogation room now. You two ready?”

“Ready,” Riley responded. Ann Marie nodded confidently.

Without further comment, they walked together toward the interrogation room and stepped inside. Since the space was small, Ann Marie positioned herself outside, watching through the one-way mirror.

As Riley and the two lawmen stepped inside, her eyes fixed on Marcus Callahan, taking in the relaxed tilt of his body against the cold metal chair, the way his hands lay casually on the table despite the steel encircling his wrists. His smirk was a red flag waving boldly in her mind. No stranger to interrogations, she recognized the posture of a man unwilling to give ground.

Callahan’s contempt was visible. And it wasn’t just anger that Riley detected in him now; it was something colder, more calculating.

He feels like he’s in his element, she thought.

Riley settled into a hard-backed chair. Sheriff Beeler and Chief Thorne took chairs alongside hers, forming a united front that seemed to bounce off the invisible shield Callahan had erected around himself.

“Mr. Callahan,” Riley began calmly.

“Save it,” he cut her off, leaning back with a clatter of cuffs against the stark table. “We all know I don’t have to say a damn thing, especially not before my lawyer gets here.” He leaned back in his chair, the metal cuffs clinking against the table. “But hey, I’m not against having a friendly little chat in the meantime.” 

“Then let’s chat,” Riley said, her tone light but her eyes sharp, probing. Callahan’s smirk never wavered, but Riley noticed a slight flicker—an involuntary twitch at the corner of his eye. It was the tiniest of tells, and she wasn’t sure how to read it.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Callahan?” Riley asked. Beeler shifted uncomfortably next to her, his impatience a living presence, but Riley remained focused on the man in front of her.

“Always a pleasure to see the law’s finest in action,” Callahan drawled, his gaze flickering between the officers. He glanced up at the mirror, as though he knew Ann Marie was watching too.

“Is that so?” Thorne interjected, his voice low, a growl of contained anger. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re the one in the hot seat.”

“But maybe you can clear things up by answering a few questions,” Sheriff Beeler interrupted, leaning forward and resting his heavy arms on the table separating them from the suspect. “For example, where were you on the night of August 30th?”

“Right here in Sandhaven, where else?” Callahan’s reply came with a shrug so casual it seemed practiced.

“That’s a lie,” Beeler’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. “I know for a fact, you spent that night in Teomoc. You were there repairing Kip Palmer’s sloop.”

For just a heartbeat, surprise flitted across Callahan’s features—a rare crack in his otherwise composed demeanor—as if the sheriff’s words had pried open a door he’d hoped to keep shut. But just as quickly, it was plastered over with an amused smile.

“Well, now that you mention it, I do remember being in Teomoc that night. Funny how memory works, isn’t it?” He leaned forward, a predator’s grin spreading across his lips.

“So tell me, Sheriff, if you already knew where I was, why’d you bother asking?”

“Mr. Callahan,” Riley asked, her voice betraying none of the frustration she felt, “did you have any contact with Billie Shearer while you were in Teomoc?”

“Billie who?” Callahan’s response came too quick, his feigned ignorance almost comical.

“There’s no point in denying that you knew her,” Riley pressed on. “We have firm evidence that you were sending Billie unwanted emails and photos. We also believe that you sent similar messages to Julie Sternan.”

Callahan merely leaned back in his chair, his smirk stretching wider as if he relished the challenge. “I’d like to see you prove that,” he taunted.

Sheriff Beeler’s patience snapped; his hand came down hard on the table, the sound reverberating off the walls. Callahan jolted. “Enough games, Callahan. Did you have anything to do with the deaths of Billie Shearer and Julie Sternan?”

Riley watched as the muscles in Callahan’s jaw tightened and then relaxed, his facade of indifference almost perfect. But for that fleeting moment—that a twitch, a mere ripple across his face—it was there again. Fear? Guilt? Riley wasn’t certain. His voice, however, betrayed none of it.

“They’re dead? That’s news to me,” he said, leaning back with calculated casualness. “Sorry to hear it. Such a shame.” He sounded as if they were discussing nothing more consequential than a change in the weather.

Riley caught the brief glances exchanged among her colleagues—Beeler’s frown, Thorne’s narrowed eyes. They all knew it; the suspect’s claim was absurd. The Outer Banks had become a tinderbox of rumors and whispers about those murders, a relentless undercurrent that pulsed through every corner of the tight-knit communities. To suggest he hadn’t heard of those murders was a clumsy attempt at deception that only deepened her conviction that they were dealing with a man who thrived on manipulation. Whether Callahan had blood on his hands or not, the lie was undeniable.

“News to you?” Beeler’s tone was incredulous, the vein at his temple pulsating with restrained anger. “You expect us to believe that?”

The room held its breath for a moment, waiting, but Callahan’s facade didn’t crack. He maintained his composure and the glimmer of defiance in his eyes seemed to burn a touch brighter.

Riley’s mind raced as she processed Callahan’s responses. His arrogance was annoying, but it felt performative, like a mask worn to provoke rather than conceal. Callahan’s behavior was not that of a cornered killer—it was too self-assured, too deliberate. A true predator would be calculating, cautious, but Callahan was all bluster and baiting, like a stage actor relishing his role. The man sitting across from them was undoubtedly hiding something—but what? Was it related to these murders at all?

She glanced at Beeler, whose demeanor reflected a bulldog mentality, relentless and determined. Yet Riley knew that kind of force alone wouldn’t break Callahan.

Despite being a suspect in custody and handcuffs, his confidence bordered on arrogance. His responses were too smooth, his provocations too calculated. In Riley’s experience, most real killers would either be sweating under the scrutiny or exhibiting some sign of remorse or fear. There were exceptions among truly deadly characters, but they were rare.

Then Riley again caught that twitch in the corner of Callahan’s eye, and this time she knew how to read it. Riley trusted her gut, and right now, it told her they were had the wrong man. Callahan was a red herring—a distraction from the culprit lurking in the Outer Banks. She glanced at the mirror, as though exchanging a glance with Ann Marie through the glass, a silent conversation passing between them: Callahan might enjoy this cat-and-mouse game, but he was not their killer.

It was a conclusion that both troubled and intrigued Riley. If Callahan wasn’t their man, then who was? And what was his angle in all this? Those questions loomed larger with each passing moment in the dimly lit room, unanswered.

Then the door swung open, an interruption that sliced through the charged atmosphere. A man in a rumpled suit barged into the interrogation room. Riley immediately recognized the gait and manner of a two-bit small-town lawyer—sleazy, to be sure, and possibly not entirely sober, but also too clever to dismiss lightly.

“Agent Paige,” Thorne said, gesturing to the newcomer, “meet Stuart Ludwig.”

Ludwig’s voice cut across the space, heavy with authority, unbothered by the creases in his attire or the skeptical glances thrown his way.

“This interview is over,” he declared. “My client won’t be answering any more questions.”

Callahan was led from the room, his smirk lingering like a bad aftertaste.

Then Riley got up and joined Ann Marie in the hallway. Sheriff Beeler and Chief Thorne followed, their faces looking grim.

“Next steps?” Thorne asked, glancing around the group.

Sheriff Beeler’s conviction was strong. “We’ve got him,” he stated, his stance solid as an oak tree in a storm. “Did you see how he reacted when I mentioned being in Teomoc? He’s definitely hiding something.”

Thorne gave a nod. “And that business about not knowing the victims were dead? Please.”

“He’s as guilty as sin,” Beeler said.

Sheriff Beeler's voice was a low rumble of certainty. Thorne stood beside him, his nod serving as silent punctuation to Beeler’s declarations. Thorne stood beside him, his squint serving as silent punctuation to Beeler’s declarations. They were too sure, too anchored in their conviction that Marcus Callahan was their man.

Riley was quiet for a moment, her arms folded across her chest. She heard the heavy door to the holding cell clang shut, closing off Callahan from further questioning, at least for now.

She finally said, “Maybe you’re right. But we mustn’t jump to conclusions. We’ve got to dot our i’s and cross our t’s.”

She could sense Beeler’s irritation at her hesitance, see it in the tight line of his jaw. Thorne’s eyes, ever analytical, searched hers for a sign of faltering. But she held firm, aware that the truth was a complex labyrinth, not a straight path.

“Let’s go over the evidence again,” she suggested, already turning back toward the dim light of the bullpen. Each step felt heavy, burdened with the knowledge that somewhere out there, the real killer was watching. Waiting. And they were running out of time.

“Something’s not right,” Ann Marie murmured to her. “Doesn’t it seem like he’s almost... too guilty?” Her gaze met Riley’s, a silent plea for guidance.

“I know,” she replied quietly. “We’re missing something.”

“Callahan knows how to push buttons, to get under our skin,” Ann Marie continued, her voice tinged with doubt. “He’s playing a part, but is it the part of a real killer?”

“Or just an angry man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Riley finished, her mind racing through the profiles, the timelines, the alibis. “We need to dig deeper.”

The skepticism in Ann Marie’s tone mirrored Riley’s own thoughts. Too much about Marcus Callahan rang false, like a stage performance where the actor had learned his lines too well. She watched her partner, the afternoon light casting highlights in her blonde hair, her youthful face etched with concern.

Riley let out a slow breath, feeling the tight coil of anxiety unwind just a fraction. Ann Marie’s intuition, though less seasoned, was sharp, and Riley trusted it. They both knew the dance of deceit all too well, had seen innocence masquerade as guilt and vice versa.

Riley felt grateful that she and Ann Marie were on the same page about this. As partners, it was important for them to be in sync on such a vital question. Marcus Callahan wasn’t the killer. Whoever had murdered two women was still out there and not finished yet.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As Rachel Brennan parked her sedan in the driveway of the beachfront rental, the mid-afternoon sun was generous with its golden glow. A seasoned agent for Mitchell Realtors, Rachel had done this job countless times, each property a new challenge, a fresh opportunity. A strong work ethic was etched into her very being—meticulous, relentless, dedicated. Her watch read 3:15 PM, precise as ever.

Rachel took a moment, her professional eye scanning the two-story structure with its wrap-around deck that blended the interior into a beautiful landscape. From here, the ocean sprawled out in a panorama that captured the essence of the Outer Banks—wild, untamed, and endlessly blue. This was not just another listing; it was a sanctuary waiting for those looking to escape the mundane.

Rachel knew that the housekeepers should have completed their rounds by now, their invisible hands setting the stage for her to showcase this coastal haven. She understood that the devil was in the details—a smudge on a window, a pillow askew—these were the minutiae that could make or break a deal. And deals were what kept the lights on, what fueled the town of Darnley, a place tethered to the ebb and flow of seasonal visitors.

Drawing in a deep breath, the scent of the ocean strong in her nostrils, Rachel prepared herself to step inside. This was where her prowess shone brightest, and she would ensure that the beachfront rental stood ready to welcome the next tide of guests with impeccable grace.

Rachel walked up the wide wooden stairs, then stepped across the deck of the beachfront rental. When she unlocked the door and went inside, familiar scent of cleaning products replaced the soft, persistent aroma of salt and sea. She locked the door behind her and continued on inside.

With tomorrow’s viewings looming on the horizon, Rachel’s gaze swept the interior with the precision of a seasoned hawk, her eyes checking out every detail. The cleanliness had to be beyond reproach; it was her guarantee to potential renters that they were stepping into not just a temporary abode but a slice of coastal paradise.

Rachel’s focus narrowed to spot any imperfections, each polished surface a reflection of her own professional standards.

She reached for her phone and began to type a message. “Vacuum under the dining room table again,” she wrote, referring to the slight traces of sand and dust that had escaped the housekeepers’ notice. As she moved through the rooms, she added: “Kitchen counters need another wipe-down. Check all cabinet doors.” Lastly, “Make sure all the windows are streak-free.” The natural light that flooded the space was one of the property’s selling points, and it had to be unmarred by human touch or the salt spray carried on the ocean breeze.

Moving upstairs, Rachel’s inspection continued with the same rigorous attention. The soft carpets muffled her footsteps as she made her way through the hallway, entering the master bedroom. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over the space. The beds were made, but the pillows lacked the plushness she desired. “Fluff pillows in master bedroom,” she added to her text.

In the second bedroom, her keen eye caught the slight tilt of a framed seascape on the wall. It was minor, almost imperceptible, but to Rachel, it was a glaring oversight. “Straighten artwork in second bedroom,” she instructed. Rather than make any such corrections herself, she wanted to focus the cleaning crews attention on every detail.

She capped off the list with a firm instruction, echoing her internal drive for excellence: “Please have this done early tomorrow morning before I start showing the property at 9 AM.”

The message now complete, she hit send, entrusting the housekeeping team to execute her vision with the same fervor that drove her own actions. Rachel felt a momentary surge of satisfaction. Tomorrow’s showings would go without a hitch, and each guest would step into a flawless example of Outer Banks living.

With that last act of diligence, she descended the staircase, her hand trailing along the polished banister. Then, stepping through sliding glass doors, she emerged onto the front deck to appraise the view. The ocean, a vast expanse of shimmering azure, met the sky at an indistinct horizon. Seagulls traced lazy arcs above, their cries a sporadic soundtrack to the rhythmic crashing of waves below. Rachel leaned against the railing, the scent of salt mingling with the earthiness of sunbaked wood beneath her palms. It was a moment of respite, a rare pause in the perpetual motion of her life.

A smile, touched by a note of irony, curved Rachel’s lips as she gazed out across the ocean.

No problems here for the housekeepers to fix, she thought.

Here she stood, rooted in this coastal serenity, yet often too immersed in work to truly savor it. Her days were a blur of appointments, negotiations, and meticulous oversight—vital threads in the tapestry of her career. She inhaled deeply, tasting the brine on her tongue, and exhaled the weight of her responsibilities—if only for a minute.

She chuckled softly to herself, a sound almost lost to the sea’s constant murmur. Rachel Brennan, the agent who sold dreams of leisure, was herself caught in an endless chase after perfection. But even as the thought lingered, the undercurrent of her ambition tugged at her. She had built her reputation on being relentless, thorough, always ahead of the game. And while the ocean’s call was sweet, the satisfaction of her clients and the success of tomorrow’s showings held a gravity she could not deny.

A familiar voice echoed in Rachel’s mind, a blend of authority and concern. “You’re burning the candle at both ends, Rachel.” The memory of that conversation brought a warmth to her chest, softening the harsh lines of her professional facade. The speaker, Grace Mitchell, had long since transcended the realm of employer; she was mentor, confidante, and friend rolled into one.

Leaning on the sun-warmed railing, Rachel mulled over Grace’s advice to take some time off. It had been delivered with a gentle firmness that spoke volumes about their relationship. A week away from the frenzy of deals and paperwork... perhaps even a stay in one of these beachfront havens? The suggestion alone was a testament to the trust and respect woven between them through years of collaboration.

With a soft exhale, Rachel admitted there was appeal in the possibility—a rare chance to recharge in the lap of luxury. The perks of her position with Mitchell Realtors often felt abstract, benefits noted on paper but seldom realized. Free stays in these opulent properties were among them—a facet of her job she’d barely sampled. Rachel’s small apartment in town seemed all the more confined when cast against the sprawling majesty of this beachfront escape.

As she leaned against the deck’s railing, tracing the weathered grain of the wood, Rachel allowed herself a moment to fantasize. What would it be like to wake each morning to the sound of waves, to have no agenda but the pursuit of relaxation?

But even as the temptation tugged at her, Rachel’s musings took a darker turn. The serenity of the Outer Banks had recently been marred by warnings of danger. She pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders, as if the gesture could ward off the chill of unease. The news of Billie Shearer’s death had spread like wildfire, igniting fear and suspicion in every conversation. Rachel didn’t know Billie personally, but she’d seen her around—noticed her vibrant smile at community events, heard her laughter ringing out above the hubbub of local gatherings.

Billie’s role in the town extended far beyond her hotelier duties; she had been a fixture on the Board of Commissioners. Rachel recalled their last brief exchange—a simple nod of acknowledgment at the supermarket barely a week ago. It seemed impossible that someone as full of life as Billie was gone, silenced by an unknown malice.

And there had been another murder down in Sandhaven—the name alone conjured up images of a rugged coastline and a defiant, close-knit population. Rachel shivered as the thought of a woman from that insular town, recently dead under circumstances eerily similar to Billie’s. She didn’t know the victim’s name, but the murmurings among the locals had painted a grim picture of a pattern emerging, connecting the two tragedies.

The implications were chilling, and Rachel found herself scanning the horizon as if the perpetrator might be lurking among the rolling waves or hiding in the dunes. Could there really be a serial killer walking among them, preying on unsuspecting women?

She tried to focus on the facts, on the few details that had slipped through the tight-lipped police reports and hushed conversations. Both women were fixtures in their communities, both had seemingly vanished into thin air, and both had been found too late, their lives extinguished in violence.

The thought of today’s email from the Outer Banks Tourists Office flitted through her mind, a well-intentioned warning: “Be vigilant and aware of your surroundings.” The words had been intended for all women in the area, a digital whisper of caution.

The voice in her head, unmistakably Grace’s, carried a tone both stern and caring. “You shouldn’t be out there all by yourself, Rachel,” the imagined reprimand went, tinged with the warmth of concern. Rachel couldn’t help but smile; she could almost see Grace’s furrowed brow soften into a look of affectionate exasperation.

Alone like this, she realized, meant being potentially exposed; a single figure against the vast canvas of sea and sand. For a moment, she allowed herself to acknowledge the fear, to feel the slow thump of her heart as it beat a cautious rhythm. Rachel’s hand drifted to her purse, touching the familiar shape of her pepper spray—a small but weighty reassurance.

But there was something about today, about this house with its sun-bleached deck and the cry of the gulls, that made the specter of danger seem distant, almost inconceivable. As swiftly as it came, the unease dissipated, swept away by Rachel’s innate pragmatism. She straightened her posture, her mind rallying against the moment of trepidation.

Rachel Brennan was not one to be cowed by the possibility of lurking threats. She had armed herself with more than just pepper spray. Self-defense classes had honed her reflexes, taught her how to turn her body into a weapon if need be. She prided herself on her awareness, her ability to read a room—or, in this case, a deserted property—and sense if something was amiss.

A seagull’s cry broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. This was no time for daydreams; duty called, and Rachel Brennan answered with all the commitment she was known for. The briny scent of the sea, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the faint rustling of the dunes—all was as it should be. With a nod to herself, she acknowledged the momentary fear for what it was—a natural reaction—and locked it away. There was work to be done.

Turning on her heel, Rachel moved back into the house. Her mind was already cataloging the tasks that remained: notes to jot down, final touches to ensure the property sparkled for prospective renters. She reached for the door handle, the cool metal familiar beneath her fingers.

But then, the silence was betrayed by an unexpected sound—a floorboard groaned softly behind her. A split second hung suspended, instinct and training kicking in. Before she could pivot, before she could unleash the self-defense maneuvers, a blunt force collided with the back of her head.

The world spun away from Rachel as darkness rushed in to claim her. There was no pain at first, only a sensation of falling, as if the ground itself had given way beneath her feet. Her last coherent thought was a fleeting image of Grace’s concerned face, a ghostly echo of her warning words. And then, nothingness enveloped her, swallowing the golden light of the Outer Banks afternoon whole.

Rachel Brennan, ever vigilant and capable, was rendered helpless by an unseen adversary, crumpling to the floor of the beautiful beach house as consciousness slipped away like sand through open fingers.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

April moved through the Jefferson Bell University cafeteria, looking for a place to sit down. It was only her first week of college, and everything still felt a bit intimidating. Although the aroma of freshly baked pizza flirting with the robust scent of coffee permeated the air, her tray held a salad bowl and a bottle of water. She scanned the crowded space for a solitary island in the throng, a place to sit and gather herself. Her eyes flitted from one partly occupied table to another until they landed on a figure near the window.

There was a guy sitting alone, absorbed in his books, ignoring a sandwich beside him that looked like it had been untouched for hours. His focus was so intense it seemed to create a bubble of isolation around him in the otherwise bustling environment. Then he glanced up at her, and just as quickly turned his glance away.

She found something familiar about his posture, the way he seemed to carry an invisible weight on his shoulders. It made her think of her mother, Riley, who often bore the same look after a particularly harrowing case. April, herself, knew that look all too well—the cost of carrying burdens that were too heavy to share.

She took a step closer, wondering what story lay behind the young man’s concentrated frown. His presence struck a chord within her, resonating with the part of April that understood what it was like to feel alone even in a crowd. She steeled herself with a breath and moved toward his table.

The lone figure at the window table glanced up once, his gaze cautious and quickly averted. She realized it was the quiet guy from her morning class, an enigmatic presence who had sat in the back row, blending with the woodwork. He hadn’t said a word during the heated debate on political systems, but his attentive eyes had absorbed every detail, every argument.

She hesitated for a moment, the clatter of the cafeteria fading into a muted backdrop. Her pulse quickened; approaching him was a leap into unknown waters, far from the safety of the routines she’d built to shield herself after past traumas. Yet something in his furtive glances beckoned her. It was as if he were a kindred spirit, someone who knew the value of observation. Perhaps it was his solitude in this sea of camaraderie that struck a chord with her, or maybe the way his guarded demeanor reminded her of herself—always watching, always wary.

Swallowing the flutter of nerves in her throat, April took a decisive step toward his table. “Hi there,” she greeted him. “Mind if I join you?”

As surprise flitted across the young man’s face, April noted the quick transition from bewilderment to warmth. His blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that seemed to flicker between uncertainty and something more elusive, almost electric. He cleared a space with hasty movements, his books stacking like a makeshift fortress between them.

“Oh, uh, sure! That would be great,” he managed, voice tinged with a stammer that spoke of nerves not quite tamed.

“Thank you,” April said, as she lowered her tray across from his on the table, creating a bridge over the barrier of textbooks. She took her seat, aware of the subtle shifts in her internal balance—this was new territory, engaging with someone who radiated a quiet intensity that mirrored her own.

April introduced herself first, “I’m April Paige, from the American Politics class this morning. I don’t think we’ve met properly.”

“Leo Dillard,” he said, and his smile widened as though her recognition was a lifeline thrown into the waters of his solitude. “And yeah, I remember you from class. You made some really great points about the Electoral College.”

April’s gaze lingered on Leo. It felt nice to be recognized, to know her voice had carried weight in the classroom earlier that day. “Thanks,” she said, the crunch of lettuce from her salad punctuating the moment. “I noticed you didn’t speak up in class. Are you not into politics, or just shy?”

Leo’s laughter was a nervous flutter. He ran a hand through his short brown hair, an endearing gesture that softened his features. “A bit of both, I guess. Plus, I’m not actually enrolled in the class. I’m just auditing it.”

The revelation caught April off guard, her fork pausing mid-air. “Really? That’s interesting. Are you a student here?”

A shade of red crept up Leo’s neck, and he shook his head, a sheepish smile cracking the confident facade he had held moments prior.

“Not yet. I’m working at a local bookstore to save up money for tuition.” His hands fidgeted with a napkin, folding and unfolding it as he spoke. “In the meantime, I audit classes when I can. Trying to get a head start, you know?”

April noted the faint flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. Here was someone striving against the current, and she couldn’t help but feel a connection, recalling her own struggles and the resilience they demanded. Her mother had always taught her to appreciate the grit in others.

“Wow,” April murmured, her admiration genuine. “That’s really proactive of you.” Her gaze lingered on Leo’s earnest expression, her own features softening with respect.

“That’s admirable,” she added sincerely, the clamor of the cafeteria fading to a distant hum as she focused on their conversation. “It must be tough balancing work and studies like that.”

Leo shrugged, and even though his casual gesture was meant to downplay the effort, April could see a glint of pride in his eyes at her recognition.

“It’s not easy,” he admitted. “But it’ll be worth it in the end. I’ve always wanted to study here.” His voice held a note of longing that resonated with April; she understood the pull of dreams and the weight of obstacles all too well.

As they continued to chat, April felt an unexpected connection forming. He spoke with an articulate passion about the books he loved, and she was taken aback to discover they shared similar tastes in literature. The minutes slipped away unnoticed as they exchanged thoughts on classic novels and dissected the intricacies of contemporary plots.

“Have you read ‘The Shadow of the Wind’?” Leo asked, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

“Of course,” April replied, her own excitement matching his. “Zafón’s narrative is captivating. It’s like he weaves a spell with every page.”

“Exactly!” Leo exclaimed, leaning forward. Their conversation spun from one book to another, each title a stepping stone deeper into shared interests. They debated character motivations, authorial intent, and the impact of societal context on storytelling—and all the while, April noted how seamlessly their dialogue flowed, as if they’d known each other for years.

“I should probably admit something,” he said, his voice a notch lower than before. The cafeteria’s din seemed to fade into the background as he continued. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since class this morning. That’s why I was looking at you earlier. I hope I didn’t come across as creepy or anything.”

April managed a laugh, light and airy, hoping to dispel the weight of his concern. “Don’t worry, I didn’t think you were stalking me or anything like that. I’m glad I came over to say hi.”

Leo’s relief was almost tangible, a cloud lifting from his demeanor, revealing a smile that included his eyes. “Me too. It’s nice to make a friend here. Sometimes I feel a bit out of place, not being a full-time student yet.” His admission resonated with April; she understood the feeling of being on the fringes, of trying to find one’s footing in a world that sometimes felt too large, too indifferent.

“Well, if you ever want a study buddy, I’d be happy to help,” April offered, her voice carrying an undercurrent of solidarity. “We could meet up in the library sometime.” The idea of providing support to someone else felt like a step forward, a way to stitch together a sense of community she desperately sought for herself.

“Really?” Leo’s face transformed with the suggestion, a spark igniting in his eyes. “That would be great. I might just take you up on that offer.” His enthusiasm was genuine, and April couldn’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction at his response. In offering her help, she’d also opened the door to something new—a fledgling friendship that held the promise of normalcy.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly after that, a comfortable back-and-forth that made the minutes slip away unnoticed. It wasn’t until April caught sight of the time on her phone that she realized how much of the afternoon had passed.

“Oh wow, I should probably get going,” she said, her voice tinged with reluctance. The warmth of their exchange had been a welcome respite from the usual anxiety that clung to her thoughts. “I’ve got some research to do at the library for tomorrow’s class.”

Leo nodded, mirroring her action as he began to pack away his books with care. “Yeah, I should head to work for my evening shift. But this was really nice, April. Thanks for coming over to talk.” His gratitude was simple yet touching, and April felt a sense of camaraderie in their shared academic struggles.

She stood up, feeling lighter than she had when she first entered the buzzing cafeteria. Leo also rose from his seat, his tall figure hovering over hers. A silence fell over them, thick with the unspoken words of two strangers who had unexpectedly found common ground. The chatter and clink of the cafeteria seemed distant, background noise to this unexpected moment of friendship.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you in class,” April murmured. She reached for her tray, the mundane action grounding her. Leo offered an earnest nod, his shy smile a gentle acknowledgment of the time they’d spent together.

“Definitely. And maybe we can grab coffee sometime? To study, I mean.”

“Sure, that sounds great.” April’s response came almost reflexively, her head nodding before she could process the invitation. “See you around, Leo.”

Taking measured steps toward the collection point, April felt the heaviness of her past burdens lighten with each stride. Her tray clattered as she placed it on the stack.

Making a friend like Leo, someone who straddled the realms of academia and ambition just as she did, was not something she had anticipated in these early days of her college life. That he too understood the experience of unusual struggles and strong aspirations made their meeting all the more significant.

As she made her way outside, April felt the glow of accomplishment. She had ventured out of her comfort zone, conversing with a near stranger, and in doing so, had discovered a kindred spirit. Today, her turbulent history—the drugs, the kidnapping, the fight with a would-be killer, that one accidental gunshot—did not taint her college experience. This pleasant exchange with someone who knew nothing of all that made her feel more comfortable on campus.

*

Leo felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he watched April make her way out of the cafeteria. He had played his part flawlessly, projecting the image of the modest, diligent student who just happened to cross paths with April. In reality, nothing about their meeting had been left to chance.

Doubt momentarily crossed his mind as he considered the slip-up. He’d let April know his real name—Leo Dillard—an error that could easily ripple back to her mother if mentioned in passing conversation. But he had used his own identity to sign up to audit the class, and the name had come out automatically. He shoved the worry aside with the ease of a practiced deceiver. Should it come back to haunt him, he’d find a solution; he always did.

Leo also left the cafeteria and settled onto an outdoor bench. He slipped a hand into his jacket, withdrew a well-worn leather notebook, and flipped past pages dense with notes, observations – the lifeblood of his intricate plans. He landed on an untouched sheet, and pulled out a pen to continue his notes from this morning: the lilt of April’s laugh, the specific queries she posed about campus life at Jefferson Bell University, all noted with an almost clinical detachment. He even captured the small, unconscious gestures, like the way she brushed her dark hair behind her ear, so reminiscent of her mother’s own habits.

He recalled each observation, how he’d cataloged her schedule, her likes and dislikes, down to the very bench she favored on campus—the one he was sitting on now. This documentation was more than mere record-keeping; this reconnaissance allowed him to craft each perfect encounter, one seemingly shaped by serendipity rather than the meticulous designs of a predator hiding in plain sight.

He closed his notebook, concealing the blueprint of his ruse within its pages. The groundwork was laid, and now the real game could begin. A game where every move brought him one step closer to entwining himself within April’s world – and, by extension, Riley Paige’s.

His mind worked through scenarios, each more elaborate than the last, but he found comfort in the challenge. It was a game of chess, and he was already several moves ahead. His adversary remained unaware of his position on the board, and that was an advantage he intended to keep. Yes, there were many faces Leo Dillard could wear, and he relished the chance to don whichever guise would serve him best when the time came.

In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the connections he would form—learning the nuances of April’s relationship with her sister Jilly, understanding the dynamics between Riley Paige and her partner Bill Jeffreys, mapping out their domestic routines as if they were his own. Each thread was vital, each knot critical to holding the structure together until it was time to unravel it all in one swift, decisive act.

He pictured the townhouse in Fredericksburg, visualizing its layout. Pretending to be a prospective renter, he’d toured another in the complex, one with the same interior design, and he knew his way around it well.

With a swift motion, Leo snapped the notebook shut, its secrets safe within the leather confines. Rising from the bench, he became just another student, his presence as unremarkable as the backpack slung over his shoulder. He stifled a dark chuckle. His intentions were a far cry from academic pursuits, and his meticulously crafted plans were moving along perfectly.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The clang of the café door announced their arrival, and the four of them – Riley, Ann Marie, Chief Thorne, and Sheriff Beeler – moved into the warmth of the simple establishment. It was a small place that had survived the years on the basic meals it provided. The wooden tables bore the marks of countless conversations.

Riley reminded herself that a late afternoon snack seemed normal, even though nothing else about this day had been normal. This small town was a tight-knit community where the presence of two FBI agents was obviously attracting attention, and not the good kind. As Riley glanced around, the patrons returned her gaze with curious eyes, but at least she didn’t see the kind of hostility they had encountered at Callahan’s Boat Repair or at the bar where they had arrested him.

Their sandwiches arrived on everyday plates, some of them chipped around the edges in evidence of their long service. The food was good and brought about a few minutes of quiet, although Riley picked at her sandwich without much appetite. When the conversation started again, it inevitably circled back to Marcus Callahan.

Riley noted the way Chief Thorne’s jaw clenched each time he mentioned Callahan and how Thorne’s frown also accompanied that name. The conviction in Thorne’s voice was strong.

“I always hoped I’d nail Callahan good someday. And now that day is finally here. It feels damn good.”

“It looks like we’ve got him dead to rights,” Sheriff Beeler said.

“That’s an understatement,” Thorne replied. “It’s open and shut. Everything points to Callahan's guilt. He’s got a history of harassing women. He sent those creepy emails to both victims. He lied about his whereabouts on the night of Billie Shearer’s murder. What more do we need?”

Sheriff Beeler’s sharp nod came like a punctuation mark, solidifying the alliance between the two officers.

“Not to mention his reaction when we brought him in,” Beeler added. “That’s not the behavior of an innocent man.”

Riley felt a pang of unease. The evidence was circumstantial at best, yet their belief in Callahan’s guilt was unshakable. As for his behavior at the time of his arrest, that was far from proof of guilt. It was like a cornered animal lashing out in self-defense. Callahan was a suspect, certainly, but he could still be innocent of murder, no matter how obnoxious his personality.

“We appreciate all your help, Agents,” Beeler said, his tone softening a little. “But I think we can take it from here. We know these people, this community. We’ll get Callahan to crack, and it all will be over, tied up tight.”

Riley caught Ann Marie’s eye, seeing her own hesitation reflected there. They were outsiders here, swimming against a current of local belief and long-forged bonds. Any objections could be easily dismissed.

Then Ann Marie spoke up for both of them. “Sheriff, Chief, I understand where you’re coming from,” she began, her blue eyes steady on Beeler and Thorne. “But maybe there’s more to this than we’re seeing right now.”

Riley registered the minute shift in Beeler’s posture, the slight crease in Thorne’s brow. These men were rooted in their convictions, but Ann Marie’s composed challenge stirred something, a ripple of consideration perhaps.

“Look, we’ve come this far together,” Ann Marie continued, her politeness unwavering even as she stood her ground. “Wouldn’t it be prudent to explore every possibility? For the sake of thoroughness?”

“Thoroughness,” Beeler repeated, rolling the word around as if tasting something unfamiliar. He considered Ann Marie, then Riley, his expression caught between annoyance and respect. Riley felt a flicker of pride at Ann Marie’s poise. She was young, yes, but beneath her carefully styled hair and polished appearance was a sharp and agile mind.

“Chief Thorne, Sheriff Beeler,” Ann Marie continued, “I think we might be jumping to conclusions. Callahan’s behavior is certainly suspicious, but it doesn’t necessarily make him a killer.”

Riley watched Thorne’s reaction, the man leaning back, arms crossing over his broad chest like a barrier. “So what are you suggesting? That we just let him go?” he challenged, his tone edged with frustration.

“No,” Riley interjected quickly, seizing the opening. “But maybe we should go ahead and explore all angles before we close the case.”

“Such as?” Thorne grumbled.

Wheels turned in Riley’s head as she tried to think of any plausible reason for her and Ann Marie to stay on the case.

“There’s at least one loose end we haven’t tied up yet,” Riley said, and the eyes of the others turned towards her in expectation. “After Julie Sternan’s murder, you said you visited a vintage swimwear store called Tidal Beauties, right? To see if they might have sold the 1920s-style swimsuit the killer dressed her in?”

Beeler’s nod came with a hint of impatience, his voice carrying the weariness of long days tethered to this case. “Yeah, and the owner, Steven Walsh, assured us he’d never carried anything like it. And I didn’t see anything like it in his catalogue, so I believed him.” His eyes met Riley’s, demanding an explanation for her thinking.

“What about the second swimsuit, the one from the ‘80s?” Riley asked. “Have you checked back with Walsh since Billie Shearer was found?”

The sheriff shook his head, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Nope. Yesterday was a whirlwind, and there was no time. Besides, I can’t see much need for that. If one of the killer didn’t bother to buy one of the swimsuits there, there’s no reason to suspect differently for the other one. What’s your point?”

“My point is that it’s a lead. And it’s our job to follow leads, no matter how unlikely they seem. We owe it to the victims. Since you haven’t gone back there since Billie Shearer was found in that 1980s-style suit, wouldn’t it be worth checking if they might have sold that one?”

Beeler just looked at Riley skeptically as she plunged ahead.

“Maybe Walsh missed something, or maybe...” She paused, trying to solidify her thoughts into words that would resonate with the local lawmen.

“Or maybe,” she continued, finding strength in her reasoning, “he lied. And we’ve only got his word to go by, right?”

“That’s right,” Ann Marie chimed in, offering support.

Beeler scoffed, the sound rough and dismissive. He shook his head, clearly unimpressed by their line of inquiry. “Like I said, if the suit on the first victim wasn’t bought there, what reason do we have to think the second one was?” His question sounded like a challenge, daring them to come up with a better argument.

“We won’t know unless we ask,” Riley said firmly. “I’m still assigned to this case by the FBI, and I think we’ll have to pay Mr. Walsh another visit. Something isn’t adding up, and I want to look him in the eye when he tells me he doesn’t know where those bathing suits came from.”

When Beeler made no immediate reply, she added, “If that’s not convenient for you, my partner and I can drive there after we get back to our company car, or even rent some other vehicle along the way if necessary. But we are going to make that stop one way or the other.”

Beeler and Thorne exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Riley held her breath, aware that this could be the turning point—or the end—of the local law enforcement’s cooperation. That would make their investigation difficult, and it could lead to the end of FBI involvement in the case.

But she wasn’t going to walk away quietly from a situation like this if she could help it. She and her partner had been called into the case at the request of the Sheriff, and he needed to realize that the FBI wasn’t to be so casually dismissed. On the other hand, an open conflict over a local case would leave no one happy.

Riley waited while a moment of tense silence enveloped the table.

Ann Marie held up her phone, displaying her research, “If we get started soon, the shop will still be open.”

“Well, we have to drive that way anyway on our way north back to Teomoc,” Beeler grumbled, his voice carrying the gravelly texture of compromise, “We’ll drive right through Scudmore. I guess we can stop by Tidal Beauties on the way” He nodded, then added, “But after that, I think it’s time for you two to head back to Quantico. And I will notify your superior that you’ve done fine work here.”

Riley offered no protest—her mind already mapping out the next steps.

“No need for me to drive up there with the three of you,” the police chief added. “I’ve got all I need to deal with right here in town.”

Riley stood and said, “We’d better get going.” She turned to Thorne and added, “Chief, thank you for showing us around Sandhaven. The man you’re holding is guilty harassment and stalking at the very least, and also resisting arrest. I’m sure you’ll make some of those charges stick. I’m glad we could help you bring him in. It’s a good arrest.”

As they all stood to go, Riley felt a surge of relief—a fleeting victory against doubt. This visit to Tidal Beauties was a gamble, her instincts propelling her forward when logic offered little reassurance. She just wasn’t ready to give up on this case, and this would serve as the next—and possibly last—item on their checklist.

They filed out of the café, Riley and Ann Marie trailed behind Beeler and Thorne, giving the veteran lawmen space to lead while exchanging a glance that spoke volumes. Both women understood what lay ahead: they needed something solid to indicate that the killer they sought wasn’t already in jail. But with so little to go on, this long shot at Tidal Beauties could very well determine whether their involvement in the case ended or not—unless they came up with another line of investigation.

Ann Marie leaned toward Riley, her expression earnest beneath the waning light. “Riley, you know this is a Hail Mary, right? What if this doesn’t pan out? We can’t keep grasping at straws.”

Riley nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the uneven pavement ahead.

“I know,” she admitted, the admission tasting bitter. “But something about this case doesn’t feel right.” Her intuition, that elusive sixth sense honed by years of profiling, nagged at her like a splinter she couldn’t remove.

“So what are we missing?” Ann Marie asked.

Riley exhaled slowly, her breath carrying the weight of uncertainty.

“That’s what we’ve got to figure out.” The admission was a reluctant confession from a woman who built her career on chasing down the obscure. But she knew that admitting doubt was sometimes the first step toward uncovering the overlooked.

She looked at Ann Marie, seeing the reflection of her own turmoil mirrored in the younger agent’s earnest gaze. Their questions went unanswered as they continued to follow the receding figures of Beeler and Thorne. Riley knew her answers to those questions would shape more than just the immediate future—it would ripple through her conscience, through sleepless nights and the echoes of victims’ voices.

“Ann Marie,” Riley said, “I keep thinking about them—the victims.” Her gaze lingered on a family passing by, laughter trailing behind them like a lifeline. “They deserve answers, and they deserve justice. We still haven’t given them that.”

Ann Marie nodded, her youthful face set in a grim line that seemed out of place amidst her usually vibrant demeanor. “We’ll do that Riley.”

“I hope so,” Riley said. “But what if we’re just chasing ghosts?

“Maybe we are,” Ann Marie responded, her voice tinged with the wisdom of someone who’d seen more than her years should allow. “But sometimes, ghosts do lead us to facts.”

Riley considered that—the idea that the intangible could guide them to something concrete. It was a sliver of hope, thin and fragile, yet it was there.

She thought of the victims again, their lives snuffed out too soon, leaving ripples of grief and questions. Of their families, who waited with bated breath for any word that might bring solace. And somewhere, possibly, a killer watching, waiting, confident in their obscurity.

It was a heavy burden, the weight of unknown lives resting on their shoulders, the threat of more bloodshed a silent clock ticking away in the background. Riley turned to Ann Marie, her partner’s eyes reflecting the fading light, earnest and filled with an intensity that belied her experience.

Ann Marie said, “But we have to face the possibility that we might be wrong. If this visit doesn’t yield anything, are you prepared to go back to Quantico?”

The question was a good one.

Was she ready to abandon the chase, to return to the sanctuary of her office at the BAU?

We need a break, Riley thought. Something that tells us there’s a solution to be found, a clue that we’re on the right track.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Riley squinted against the bright glare bouncing off the store’s display window, where an assortment of vintage bathing suits vied for attention. The quaintness of the shop called Tidal Beauties seemed at odds with the grim reason for their visit.

Ann Marie stood beside her, adjusting her sunglasses, and Sheriff Beeler headed on past them and through the front door. They followed him inside, and Riley saw racks brimming with swimwear from times long past. Mannequins in pin-up poses showcased the best of the collection, their plastic smiles frozen in time. One counter was cluttered with an array of vintage accessories: cat-eye sunglasses lay in artful disarray beside colorful beach bags and ornate swim caps that looked like they belonged on the silver screen rather than a modern-day beach.

An older man was standing behind a glass counter. His weather-beaten face revealed countless days spent under the coastal sun. The salt-and-pepper beard gave him a distinguished look, the kind of local character who might be featured in a travel magazine article extolling the virtues of small-town living.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” he said to Beeler, “I see you’ve brought reinforcements with you.”

“Steven, these are Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI,” Beeler said, gesturing toward his companions. “The owner of this shop, Steven Walsh.”

Walsh’s expression shifted subtly, the friendly lines around his eyes tightening just enough to suggest the gravity of their presence wasn’t lost on him. “Heard on the news that the FBI was in the banks,” he replied, hands clasping over one another atop the counter. “Another murder, they’re saying? Terrible business, that.”

“Mr. Walsh,” Riley said, “we’re here because the second victim was found wearing a vintage swimsuit, like the victim in the previous case. But the style was different, from another period of time. We were hoping you might be able to help us determine where it might have come from.”

Walsh frowned. “But Sheriff, didn’t we already establish that the first suit wasn’t from here?”

“We did,” Sheriff Beeler replied, his expression weary as he pulled out his tablet. “But we need to be thorough. This is a different bathing suit from a different era. Maybe you’ve seen something like it.”

He pulled out his tablet and brought it to life with an image of the second victim’s bathing suit. “Well, the style’s familiar enough, but I can’t say I recognize it,” Walsh admitted after a moment, his eyes earnest. “I pride myself on knowing every piece that passes through my doors.”

Riley noted the sincerity in his tone. Walsh was a man anchored by his connection to memorabilia. She believed that if either bathing suit had been part of his collection, he would remember it.

“Your assistance means a lot to us, Mr. Walsh,” Riley said. “Do you mind if we take a little time just looking around?”

“Of course,” Walsh replied, his earlier warmth resurfacing as he gestured to the racks of clothing. “Feel free. Maybe you’ll find something that helps.”

Riley’s gaze drifted across the shop, taking in the curated chaos of colors and fabrics. Each piece seemed to echo laughter and summer days long past, yet they were here in search of a connection to something unspeakably grim.

“Look at this craftsmanship,” Walsh said, picking up a suit adorned with sequins that shimmered like the surface of the ocean. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

“True,” Riley murmured. The bathing suits on the two victims were definitely period styles, but somehow not as elegant as the ones she saw displayed here in the shop.

Ann Marie’s spoke up, “Sheriff Beeler, do you have pictures of the suits themselves? I mean, after they were removed from the corpse?”

Sheriff Beeler nodded.

“Could you pull up a photo of the suit from the first victim—Julie Sternan? I need to see a close-up shot. Something that shows me the details.”

“Of course,” Beeler replied, his thumb scrolling through files until he found the requested image—not a crime scene photo like those Riley and Ann Marie had studied earlier, but a picture of the suit itself. He turned the tablet toward Ann Marie, who leaned in with an intensity that Riley had come to recognize when her partner was on to some new idea.

As Ann Marie scrutinized the photograph, her eyes tracing the lines and shapes of the garment.

“May I zoom in?” Ann Marie asked.

“Be my guest.”

Ann Marie swiped across his tablet’s glossy surface, enlarging the photograph for a clearer view. The suit lay flat and lifeless, stripped from its final, grim figure. Riley watched as Ann Marie leaned closer, her blonde hair almost brushing the cold glass of the tablet screen. There was a furrowing of her brow, a slight parting of her lips—a silent gasp caught in the absence of air.

“See something?” Riley murmured.

Ann Marie didn’t respond to her question. “Could I see a photo of the other one?” she asked.

The sheriff brought up another photo and handed the tablet back to the young agent. Riley leaned over to see the image as Ann Marie zoomed in for details.

Meanwhile, Sheriff Beeler turned back to the store owner. His voice sounded discouraged as he asked Graves, “Steven, mind if we take another look through your catalogue anyway? Just to be sure?”

Before Walsh could muster a response, Ann Marie’s assertion came sharp and clear. “That won’t be necessary, Sheriff. This swimsuit wasn’t bought here. In fact, it wasn’t bought anywhere.”

All eyes snapped to the young agent whose confidence clashed with her fresh-faced appearance.

Beeler’s expression morphed from frustration to perplexity. “How can you be so sure?”

Ann Marie met the sheriff’s questioning stare. “Because I have experience dressing dead people. I’ve even made clothes for them.”

Momentary silence claimed the space as her statement sank in, leaving a ripple of unease. Walsh’s mouth hung slightly agape, Beeler’s stance shifted awkwardly. Riley suppressed a smile. She had often grappled with the juxtaposition of Ann Marie’s sunny optimism and her unsettling expertise in the mortuary business.

She explained to the two men, “Agent Esmer has put in some time working alongside her father in his funeral parlor.”

Ann Marie, undisturbed by the reactions, leaned forward and swiped at the screen.

“These suits were clearly hand-made,” she soon concluded, certainty in her voice.

“Hand-made?” Beeler echoed, his frown deepening.

“Yes, and not by someone skilled. Look at these haphazard stitches, the way the fabric bunches. It’s like a rough draft, not a finished product.”

Riley pondered this, the implications sending a chill down her spine. If these suits were crafted by the killer for each victim, it meant a level of premeditation and personal involvement that they hadn’t considered before.

“My guess,” Ann Marie continued, her tone steady despite the grim nature of her deduction, “is that the killer took the measurements of the intended victims while they were still alive, then made these suits specifically for them.” She paused, her gaze lingering on the image. “But it turned out to be harder than the killer expected. The sloppy adjustments suggest the killer had trouble fitting the suits onto the bodies post-mortem and had to make some changes.”

“You’re certain of this?” Beeler asked. “That the suits are handmade?”

“Look here,” Ann Marie said, her voice steady as she pointed to a section of the swimsuit displayed on the tablet. “See this crooked seam? And here, the uneven stitching? And here, where you can see stitches were pulled out and then replaced a little differently?”

Riley edged closer, her gaze following Ann Marie’s slender finger as it traced the jagged lines on the image. It was a minute detail, one that might have been overlooked by a less discerning eye, but Ann Marie’s mortuary background had obviously honed her attention to the smallest of imperfections. The flaws were subtle, yet unmistakable—the kind of mistake a machine wouldn’t make, a sign that human hands were behind this grim puzzle piece. The thought sent a shiver down Riley’s spine, knowing those same hands had not stopped at sewing.

“Amateur at best,” Ann Marie commented, zooming out to reveal the full image before diving back into another compromised section of the swimsuit. “No commercial outlet would sell a suit with these kinds of defects.”

The proprietor of Tidal Beauties stepped closer, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he scrutinized the digital photograph from over Ann Marie’s shoulder. His nod was slow, almost reluctant, as if agreeing pained him professionally.

“She’s right,” Walsh murmured, a tinge of surprise undercut by a note of admiration for Ann Marie’s astuteness. “I’d never stock anything of this poor quality.”

Riley felt the shift in the room, the collective realization that they were dealing with something far more personal than a simple purchase. This swimsuit was a crafted message of death tailored by the killer’s own hands. The young agent’s finding had dropped into their midst like a stone into still water, sending ripples through most of what they thought they knew about the case.

Turning to Beeler, Ann Marie posed a question that now seemed crucial: “Sheriff, can you imagine Marcus Callahan operating a sewing machine under any circumstances? Or stitching up a seam by hand?”

The large man shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his authority seeming to press down upon him as he considered the incongruity of the image. But it wasn’t just the absurdity of the powerful Callahan delicately threading a needle; it was the realization that their investigation might have been chasing the wrong man while the true predator remained hidden.

“No, I can’t say that I can,” he admitted, his voice rough with reluctant acceptance. It was clear that even he couldn’t picture Callahan as the meticulous if clumsy crafter of the ill-fitted swimsuits.

“Then I think we can safely say that either Callahan is not our killer,” Ann Marie stated, her blue eyes alight with fervor. “Or someone else is working with him, someone who made these bathing suits for him and adjusted them after the murders. We need to rethink this case from the ground up.”

Riley nodded in silent agreement, her mind already racing through the implications. She thought that Ann Marie’s first suggestion was by far the most likely—that Callahan had nothing to do with these murders. Of course both she and Ann Marie had suspected as much. But Sheriff Beeler was accustomed to looking at the world through a lens colored by assumptions and preconceived notions that the killer had bought the vintage suits. Now, the landscape had changed, and they had other options to consider. They were back to square one—but this time, with a clearer vision. And what they had just learned also fit better with Riley’s sense that this killer might be a woman.

“Mr. Grant,” Riley asked, “do you know of anyone, male or female, who might have produced the bathing suits in those photos?”

“No, I sure don’t,” he replied. “I’ve never known anybody who makes their own swimsuits. Why would they bother to do that?”

“Thank you, Mr. Walsh,” Riley said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “Your help has been invaluable.” Walsh nodded, his own expression mirroring the seriousness of their undertaking.

“Please let us know if you think of any possibilities,” Riley added.

As the storekeeper gave them assurances, the investigators all headed for the door.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Walsh,” Beeler said, closing his tablet with a soft click.

“Anytime, Sheriff,” Walsh responded, accompanying them to the door. “I hope you catch whoever’s doing this.”

As the investigators headed out the door, Riley paused at the threshold, casting a final glance back at the shop. Her eyes settled on a framed photograph near the exit, and something tugged at her awareness. It was of a smiling woman captured in time. The picture pulled at Riley’s attention. She stepped closer, her mind registering the high cheekbones and the confident cut of the woman’s hair. The face held the kind of smile that hinted at a life lived boldly and without regret.

She realized that her partner had stopped next to her.

“Ann Marie,” Riley said, her voice low, “do you see it?”

Ann Marie moved closer, peering over Riley’s shoulder. “I do... it’s uncanny.”

“Whoever did this,” Riley continued, her pulse quickening, “they’re not just killing. They’re recreating.”

“Or erasing,” Ann Marie added softly.

“Agents? You coming?” Beeler’s voice echoed, a bit muffled, from the shop entrance.

Riley’s eyes lingered on the image, her thoughts racing. This was no coincidence, it couldn’t be. The victims had been chosen for a reason, and this smiling woman, frozen in time on the wall of Tidal Beauties, might be the key to understanding the mind behind the murders.

Riley breathed, her pulse quickening. “I think we just got our break.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Riley stood motionless, her gaze still held by the framed photograph. “Mr. Walsh,” she said, her voice sharp, “Could you tell us who this woman is?”

Steven Walsh shuffled closer.

“This one,” Riley said, indicating the image of the smiling woman that had caught her attention.

“Ah, that’s Elaine Winters,” the store owner murmured, his voice soft. “She was the founder of Tidal Beauties, back in the day.” His eyes glazed over with the sheen of recollection.

“Tragic story, really,” he added.

“Tragic how?” Riley pressed.

Walsh’s hands found support on a time-worn counter. His sigh filled the air, a prelude to the story that was about to unfold, and Riley’s senses told her that this was more than just a recounting of history—it could be a key to unlocking the present.

“She drowned, poor thing,” Walsh said, each word heavy with remembrance. “It was back in ‘85, not far from here.” He paused, as if the past were a current he could still feel, cold and unyielding. “She loved to swim, you see. Always said the ocean was where she felt most alive.” The irony of his last sentence was shocking, and he shook his head as if to dispel the ghosts that lingered.

“Mr. Walsh,” Riley prompted, “Could you tell us more about what happened? Any details you remember could be important.” She felt certain that Elaine Winters was a piece of the puzzle she had come here to solve—perhaps the key piece that would lead to the truth about what was happening right now on the Outer Banks.

Walsh took a moment to gather his memories, then he explained, “Elaine was the wife of a good friend of mine, Harry Winters. Harry ran a successful tourist business here on the Outer Banks. Harry and Elaine were quite the power couple,” Walsh reminisced, his gaze distant. “They had a knack for business, turning local ventures into gold mines.”

“Tell us more,” Riley said.

“Elaine was also stepmother to Harry’s daughter, Diana. Harry’s first wife died, you see, and Diana was 15 when he remarried. Come to think of it, Diana was with Elaine when it happened. Tried to save her, but couldn’t. She was devastated by it.” Walsh’s voice trailed off, fading into the silence of the shop.

The chill that Riley felt was the cold touch of intuition. Her instincts were rarely wrong, and they were practically shouting now. Her voice low, she asked, “What happened to Harry and Diana after Elaine’s death?”

Walsh’s shoulders slumped. “They couldn’t bear to stay here,” he replied, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Too many painful memories, I suppose. Harry closed down his business, and Elaine sold this store to me. They packed up and moved to Miami. Last I heard, Harry had gotten on his feet again business-wise. Winters Tourist Services is going strong down there.”

Ann Marie’s question broke through Riley’s contemplation. “And Diana? What became of her?”

Walsh’s face took on a somber cast, the lines deepening around his mouth. “That’s another tragedy, I’m afraid,” he murmured. “Diana also drowned, just a couple of years after they moved to Miami. Never clear if it was an accident or...”

Walsh’s voice trailed into silence, but his unfinished sentence reverberated in Riley’s head. Had the girl who hadn’t been able to save her stepmother committed suicide? Or fallen to a similar accident? Or could there be an even darker explanation for the death of a wife and a stepdaughter?

“Mr. Walsh,” she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind in her mind. “Do you have any way to contact Harry Winters? It could be crucial to our investigation.”

Walsh nodded, a sense of purpose returning to his movements as he shuffled behind the counter to rummage through its contents.

“Got his business card somewhere...” His voice faded into the background noise of the shop as Riley waited. Finally, he emerged victorious, holding out a faded card for Winters Tourist Services in Miami. As she took it from him, the card felt like a key to unlocking the next door in this labyrinth of murder and mystery.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Walsh,” Riley said, her words polite but her mind elsewhere. As they turned to leave Tidal Beauties, the photograph of Elaine Winters caught her eye once more.

The woman’s joyous smile was frozen in time, but it was the features that framed that smile that held Riley spellbound. She saw the dead, wide-eyed stares of Billie Shearer and Julie Sternan’s reflected in the image before her. The same high cheekbones, the same style of hair cropped close to the skull—Riley knew there were no accidents in a case like this.

The pattern was emerging, a ghastly echo of the past reaching out to claim new victims. If her hunch was right, they were dealing with someone whose obsession with Elaine Winters had turned lethal.

When the investigators stepped outside, the sun hovered low, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. For a moment, Riley allowed herself to feel the warmth on her skin, grounding herself in the present as they approached Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser.

“Beeler, Esmer,” she called out, her voice commanding their attention. Ann Marie and Sheriff Beeler paused by the car and turned to watch her, waiting to hear what she had to say.

“We have to reconsider our whole approach to this case,” Riley began, her words racing to keep up with the revelations unfolding in her mind. “The killer isn’t choosing victims at random. They’re specifically targeting women who resemble Elaine Winters.”

“I thought might be what you were getting from the old photograph,” Sheriff Beeler said with a note of skepticism. “You’ve got some idea that maybe the killer is choosing faces similar to Elaine’s.”

“Exactly,” Riley affirmed. “And the drownings, the posing of the bodies on the beach—it’s all tied to Elaine Winters’ death.”

Sheriff Beeler folded his arms across his chest, looking skeptical. “That’s quite a leap, Agent Paige. It could just be a coincidence. Some people look alike. Our victims weren’t exact matches, even though they did have similar coloring.” His voice was steeped in the caution of experience, one that had seen too many false leads and dead ends.

“That’s why the crude haircuts—to enhance the resemblance,” Ann Marie observed. those were attempts to enhance that resemblance. “But why? Why an obsession in the first place?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” Riley admitted.

Beeler still looked unconvinced about the whole theory, and Riley understood his hesitation. The patterns she saw were woven from both instinct and analysis, and they wouldn’t make sense to everyone. But time was a luxury they didn’t have, and she couldn’t ignore the scream of her intuition. “I’ve learned to trust these instincts, Sheriff. They’ve led me down dark paths before, but they’ve also brought me face to face with things I needed to see.”

They got into the cruiser, and Riley pulled out the business card with Harry Winters’ details. “I know it seems far-fetched, Sheriff, but this is significant. We need to talk to Harry Winters before we go anywhere else.” Her words were laced with the authority.

Beeler grumbled, but settled into his seat without objection and Riley dialed the number on her cellphone.

“Hello, Winters Tourist Services. How may I help you?” The receptionist’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, a distant link to the man who might hold the answers they desperately sought.

“This is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. I need to speak with Harry Winters immediately. It’s urgent.” Her tone left no room for uncertainty or delay.

“Mr. Winters is currently out on the golf course,” the receptionist’s voice was apologetic but firm, a barrier between Riley and the man she needed to reach. “He’s not available at the moment. Mr. Winters does not take his cell phone with him when he’s playing a game. “

“Listen,” Riley said, urgency sharpening her words, “this is extremely important. The moment he’s available, I need him to call me back.” She rattled off her number, her eyes fixed Beeler’s expression, which reflected impatience and concern.

“Understood, Agent Paige. I will pass along the message as soon as possible,” came the clipped response before the line went dead.

“So what do we do now?” Beeler’s deep voice broke the silence that had settled in the cruiser.

Riley opened her mouth to reply, but the sudden blare of the police radio cut her off.

The Sheriff reached for the radio. “Beeler here, go ahead,” he said, and the voice on the other end crackled through the speaker, each word sounding urgent.

“Sir, we’ve got a report of a missing woman near Darnley. Given the recent pattern, we’re worried she might have been abducted.”

“Tell me more,” Beeler said.

“The woman’s name is Rachel Brennan. She was reported missing by her boss, Grace Mitchell, owner of Mitchell Realtors.”

Riley remembered Grace Mitchell from this morning—the kindly woman who took such care to comfort two traumatized women.

She’s having a terrible day, Riley thought with a pang of sympathy.

“We need to talk to Grace Mitchell,” Riley said into the microphone. “Where can we find her?”

“She should be at her place of business in Darnley. She told us she’d be there, available to talk with us.”

“Understood,” Beeler replied. “We’re on our way there.”

As Beeler revved up the cruiser, Riley sensed the puzzle pieces starting to shift, coming together to form a picture that was both terrifying and intriguing. However, the image was still blurry, and she knew that seeing it clearly was a crucial matter of life or death.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser sped through the Outer Banks roads like a bullet, red-blue lights flashing urgently and sirens wailing. As Riley braced her body against the sharp turns that threw her against the seat belt, her mind was sifting through a tangle of questions.

Had the new missing woman, Rachel Brennan, been taken by the killer they had been working to track? If so, was there a chance that the newest missing woman was still alive?

Riley calculated that the first two victims hadn’t been killed right away. Hours had passed between their abduction and the discovery of their bodies on the beach. And because the bodies could only have been posed as they were before rigor mortis set in, it seemed likely that they were actually drowned in fresh water a short time before they were posed in the beach chairs.

It followed that their abductor had held the victims prisoner somewhere, trapped but alive until close to the time each body would be placed in a beach chair, making them easier to position as though simply reclining, enjoying the sun even though it hadn’t yet risen.

The sheriff’s cruiser came to an unceremonious halt in front of the Mitchell Realtors office, and Riley leaped out before the vehicle had fully stilled. The air was thick with the salty tang of the ocean, and she could see that the quaint town of Darnley was a natural backdrop for serene coastal living.

With Ann Marie on her heels, Riley hurried up the walkway and ascended the steps two at a time. The door swung open, and the cheerful jangle of the bell clashed with their grim purpose. Inside, Grace Mitchell’s eyes met theirs, wide with anxiety.

Riley’s memory summoned the image of Grace consoling Linda Morris and Lucy North earlier that day, her demeanor then unflappable and yet full of worry and compassionate concern. This same woman now seemed brittle, like fine china on the verge of shattering. The lines on her face, normally smoothed by careful grooming and makeup, were now ridged with worry.

Riley remembered her earlier words, “I can’t help but feel... well, responsible.”

She must feel even more so now, Riley thought.

Sheriff Beeler came through the door and began questioning. “Ms. Mitchell,” he said solemnly, “We understand your employee, Rachel Brennan, is missing.”

Grace’s confirmation came with a visible tremble, her voice quivering as if each word was difficult. “Yes,” she whispered, her lips barely moving, “I’m terrified for her.”

“Rachel is more than just an employee to me,” Grace’s voice wavered as she spoke. “She’s a vital part of my life. She’s a confidante, a protégé, a friend... I trust her, rely on her more than anyone else. She’s never let me down.”

“Did she seem at all … well, anxious today? Worried?” Riley asked.

Grace’s eyes flitted away for a brief instant before looking back to Riley. “No,” she murmured. “She seemed just fine this morning. Then we went our separate ways for the day until …”

Grace’s voice faded.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Riley’s voice was soft.

Grace’s response came after a moment, haltingly, as if each word were pulled from a well of reluctance. “Rachel and I... we were supposed to meet for drinks and a late afternoon snack at our favorite spot, the Thirsty Gull.” Her hands tightened around one another, knuckles whitening. “It’s something we do often, you know? A kind of daily ritual. A chance to unwind, discuss business in a more relaxed setting.”

As Grace continued, her voice faltered, the strain evident. “But Rachel didn’t show,” she said, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls of the office. “I warned her, you know. After those two murders... I told her to be careful. But I should have done more. I should have...” Her voice trailed off.

Sheriff Beeler calmly suggested an alternative explanation. “This could simply be a mix-up in plans, or perhaps Rachel changed her mind about meeting up.”

Grace nodded slowly as she considered his words. “That’s what I thought at first,” she admitted. “I assumed something had come up unexpectedly and that she’d contact me later on. I just had my drink and a bite to eat, did a little window shopping and finally came on back to the office.”

She looked away for a moment, then continued. “But more and more time passed with no word from Rachel. I couldn’t reach her by phone and …” She raised tear-filled eyes to meet Riley’s gaze. “That’s when I knew something was wrong and called the police.”

“Ms. Mitchell,” Riley leaned forward, wanting to reassure Grace while also emphasizing the urgency of their mission. “You mustn’t blame yourself for this situation. The best thing you can do right now is help us find Rachel.”

Grace straightened in her chair. “Of course,” she replied, determination replacing some of the fear in her eyes. “Of course I’ll help however I can.”

Riley thought for a moment. “Do you have a photo of Rachel?” she asked.

“Yes, she’s in a number of these casual shots.” Grace got up and moved to a nearby shelf lined with framed photos. She picked one up carefully and handed it over to Riley with trembling hands.

“This is Rachel,” Grace said, pointing to one woman in particular within a group photo taken in front of a ‘For Rent’ sign - all smiling faces under sunny skies.

Riley studied the photo, taking in the young woman’s high cheekbones and light brown hair. In the photo, the woman’s hair was long, cascading down past her shoulders. Riley couldn’t help but wonder if it was still the same, or whether those long tresses had already been cut short.

She shared a significant look with Ann Marie before her junior partner spoke up. “With a haircut…” Ann Marie mused aloud, trailing off as she mentally compared the woman in the photo to their previous victims.

Grace frowned at Ann Marie’s words, confusion clouding her features. “What do you mean?” she asked, her gaze darting between the two agents.

Instead of answering that question, Ann Marie raised her notebook like a shield.

“Can you tell us the last place you know Rachel to have been before her disappearance?” Ann Marie asked. “Did she mention anything specific about her plans for the day? Any appointments or properties she intended to visit?”

“Rachel mentioned she was checking on one of our properties,” Grace said. “We had housekeepers prepare it for a showing tomorrow. She said she was going there this afternoon for a walk-through. She wanted to ensure everything was perfect—just as she always did. That’s the last place I know of where I’m sure she went today.”

“Do you have the address of this property?” Riley asked. “We’d like to check it out ourselves.”

Grace nodded, her movements suddenly brisk and purposeful. She scribbled on a yellow Post-it note with a hand that shook just a little. Handing it to Riley along with a brass key that glinted in the light, she said, “It’s a beachfront house with a wraparound deck. The number is clearly posted. You can’t miss it.”

Riley pocketed the key, feeling its cool metal against her palm, a tangible link to the missing woman.

“Let’s get going then,” Beeler ordered, as he headed for the door.

As Riley and Ann Marie turned to leave, Grace stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I wish I could come with you. I have an appointment to show another property, but I suppose I can cancel—”

“Ms. Mitchell, I think it’s best if you keep that appointment,” Riley told her. “Try to maintain as much normalcy in your life as possible. It’s important for your well-being.”

Grace’s eyes searched Riley’s, brimming with an uncertainty that made her look vulnerable, a stark departure from the composed realtor she had been hours before. Grace hesitated, the internal conflict clear on her face, then slowly her posture yielded to resignation. She nodded, the faintest tremor in her voice as she replied, “You’re right, of course. Thank you, Agent Paige. Please, find her.”

Riley gave a single nod, a silent promise before she, Ann Marie, and Sheriff Beeler moved swiftly out the door,

As the trio made their way to Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser, the sky above Darnley was beginning to darken, almost as if mirroring their concerns. They piled in swiftly, the sheriff’s hand steady on the wheel as they pulled away, the flashing lights casting a blue pallor over the quiet streets.

The cruiser soon slowed to a halt before the handsome beachfront house surrounded by a wooden deck, with the grandeur of the ocean stretching beyond it. Riley led the way up the stairs and unlocked the front door.

As they entered, Sheriff Beeler’s hand rested on his gun belt—a subtle gesture, but it spoke volumes of his readiness to confront whatever they might find. There seemed to be a stillness in the air over the beachfront property as Riley moved through the rooms, her senses on high alert. The ocean breeze that slipped through open windows carried the salty tang of the sea and the undercurrent of danger.

It didn’t take long to see that something had gone wrong here. A side table near the doors on the ocean side leaned precariously, as if recoiling from an unseen force, and the vase that once adorned it lay shattered, its floral occupants strewn about like colorful casualties. Water bloomed across the floorboards, dark and ominous.

“There was a struggle,” Ann Marie murmured. She turned on a light so they could see things more clearly.

“Not much of a fight though,” Beeler observed. “It ended quickly. Just looks like someone might have been dragged through here. Maybe a dead body.”

“Or just unconscious,” Ann Marie said, looking into a bathroom. “At least there’s no sign that anyone might have been drowned in there. That bathroom is spotless.”

“You’re right,” Riley said. “There’s no sign that whoever took her spent much time here. They must have had a safer place in mind.”

“Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Quick, efficient,” Sheriff Beeler muttered, surveying the disarray with an experienced eye.

Riley nodded silently, piecing together the scene before her. The isolation of the house lent itself to secrecy, while its location close to a road offered a swift escape route—the perfect spot for a calculated ambush. She could almost hear the silent footsteps of the perpetrator, feel the rush of adrenaline at the prospect of the hunt. It was a pattern she’d come to recognize, one that now had the life of Rachel Brennan hanging in the balance.

As Riley’s gaze lingered on the displacement of the furniture, her mind raced, fitting the scattered pieces of this grim puzzle into place. The methodical nature of the crime suggested someone who reveled in control, who took perverse pleasure in the fear they sowed.

Her training at the BAU and her years in the field had taught her to think like these predators, to anticipate their moves. Her own special skills had taught her to experience their thoughts and actions more intimately. But all she was getting here now was a vague sense of brief activity, a flash of panic, nothing more.

The three of them moved deeper into the house and made a quick check of the upstairs bedrooms and baths, the air thick with unanswered questions.

“This place is immaculate,” Ann Marie observed. “Except for that disturbed area, it could be ready for someone to move in.”

“Well, it’s going to be closed off now,” Beeler declared. “We’ll want a forensics team to go over everything more carefully just in case. No tourists need to be trampling around here.”

He stepped aside and made a phone call, summoning officers with yellow tape to seal off the house from any prospective vacationers or curious townspeople.

Riley stood aside, hoping for a moment of quiet that might give her a glimpse into what had taken place here earlier, when the sudden vibration of her phone jolted her back to the present.

When she saw the caller ID, a current of anticipation charged through her veins. With a steady hand, she silenced the device’s insistent buzzing and gestured to Beeler and Ann Marie for quiet.

Her finger hovered over the answer button, hoping she might get some answers in this phone call from ‘Harry Winters.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Riley answered her phone: “Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Winters.”

Harry Winters’ voice crackled through the speakerphone: “Agent Paige, I got your message. You said it was urgent. What’s this about?”

“I’m an FBI Special Agent assigned to a case in Darnley, North Carolina. And I’m here with Sheriff Smitty Beeler and my partner, Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We’re working on a case that may have potential connections to your late wife, Elaine.”

A long pause followed her words.

“Elaine?” Winters’s voice wavered, a note of bewilderment. “I don’t see how...”

“Trust me, Mr. Winters, it’s relevant. We wouldn’t be asking if this wasn’t important.”

Riley heard him take a deep, steadying breath on the other end of the line. When he made no comment, she continued, “Mr. Winters, we’re investigating two murders here on the Outer Banks. As I said, we’ve come across some possible connections to your late wife. I was hoping you could tell us about the circumstances of her drowning back in 1985.”

The silence that followed stretched out, laden with tension. Riley kept her focus on the phone, resisting the urge to fidget or pace.

Finally, Harry Winter’s voice came through again, hesitant and tinged with confusion. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said slowly. “How could Elaine’s drowning death be related to any current murders?”

Riley paused, her thoughts whirling like a storm as she considered how much information she should divulge. She had to tread carefully through this discussion, unsure about what Harry Winters knew or suspected about the complex path their investigation had taken. Now was no time to give him a full update about the case in all its grim details.

“I know it might seem unrelated, Mr. Winters, and I’m sorry to trouble you about this,” she replied. “But there is a connection between our new case and some old-fashioned swimsuits. It’s my understanding that Elaine Winters was the founder of Tidal Beauties in Scudmore, and even though the store is under different ownership now, that is what has led us to you. Any information at all that you can provide could be crucial to our current investigation.”

The next silence was so long that Riley wasn’t sure that she was going to get an answer. Then Harry Winters let out a long sigh. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “Elaine was my second wife. My first wife, Claudia, died from cancer two years before I remarried. Elaine and I were still feeling like newlyweds when … it all happened.”

Riley listened intently as Winters continued. “Diana was only fifteen at that time, still reeling from the loss of her mother and trying to adjust to a new woman in her life.”

He paused again, his voice cracking as he went on. “Elaine did everything she could to connect with Diana,” he said. “It wasn’t easy. Diana was rebellious, as teenagers often are, and she fought against the very idea of having a stepmother. It was a rough beginning for our blended family, but there were signs of hope...things were smoothing out … until the ocean took Elaine away from us.”

In the dim light of the room, Riley saw that Ann Marie was scribbling notes as the man on the phone spoke. Sheriff Beeler was listening, but looking impatient as he often did. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, casting a twilight glow through the beachfront property—the last place they knew of that Rachel Brennan had been in alive.

“Elaine and Diana finally seemed to be getting along—in fact, Diana was treating Elaine with affection and respect. They went to the beach together to swim. Something went wrong. The waves were high that day, relentless. Elaine was an excellent swimmer, but she must have gotten caught in an undertow. Diana managed to reach Elaine’s floating body and dragged her back to shore. She tried so hard to save Elaine, but she couldn’t.”

“What happened after Elaine’s death, Mr. Winters?” Riley’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, respectful of the pain that was surely still raw now, although it had begun decades ago. She sought to tread lightly, knowing each memory was a steppingstone over turbulent waters.

His voice grew heavy with emotion. “Diana was devastated. The guilt... it was overwhelming for her. She blamed herself, even though it wasn’t her fault. We couldn’t stay in the Outer Banks after that. Too many painful memories. So we moved to Miami, tried to start fresh.”

Taking a deep breath, Riley steadied herself before delving into the next chapter of Winters’ past—a part that might hold the key to unlocking the present mystery. “Mr. Winters, I understand that Diana also passed away some years later. Can you tell us about that?”

She waited, patient and still, as the ocean’s gentle roar outside echoed through the silence inside the room. “Mr. Winters?” Riley prompted again, softer this time, giving him the space to gather his thoughts amidst his grief.

“Please tell us about it, Mr. Winters,” Sheriff Beeler interjected. He was a man used to commanding attention, but even he seemed to understand the gravity of the moment. His eyes, usually sharp as flint, held an uncharacteristic gleam of empathy.

“Give him a moment, Beeler,” Riley said quietly. In the fading light of the beachfront property, she watched as Sheriff Beeler shifted uncomfortably, his gaze lingering on the phone that lay between them. Ann Marie’s eyes were fixed on Riley.

“Mr. Winters,” Riley began again, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest, “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you, but we need to understand what happened to Diana.”

When he spoke, the sound was so faint Riley leaned closer to the speakerphone, straining to catch every word.

“Diana... she never really recovered from losing Elaine. The guilt, the grief, it all just ate away at her. One night, without my knowledge, she took our little motorboat out alone. She’d operated the boat many times, although always in daylight and never alone.”

After another stretch of silence, Winters continued his harrowing tale. “The next morning, they found the boat drifting far from shore. It was littered with empty bottles... Diana had been drinking heavily. But she was gone. Her body was never found, but there’s no question she drowned. Whether it was an accident or... or on purpose... well, we’ll never know that for sure. But I don’t see how either of these … terrible events … could have any connection to whatever the FBI is investigating in Darnley. I’m afraid that someone has sent you off on a wild goose chase, Agent Paige. To say nothing of forcing me to revisit some very painful memories.”

“Mr. Winters, I know this is difficult, but I have to ask another question that might be uncomfortable for you: can you think of anyone who might still want to avenge either your daughter’s death or Elaine’s? Someone who might bear a grudge, even after all these years?”

Winters’s confusion emanated through the speaker, his voice laced with bewilderment. “Avenge their deaths? I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to do that? And what could this possibly have to do with … whatever it is that you’re investigating?”

Riley paused for a breath. She caught Sheriff Beeler’s skeptical gaze, noted his frown deepening, and then turned her attention back to the call. “We’re exploring all possibilities, Mr. Winters. Sometimes, old grievances can resurface in unexpected ways. We do have to consider everything.”

Winters’s strained reply carried the sound of resignation. “I’m sorry, Agent Paige, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to avenge Diana or Elaine. They were tragic drownings, nothing more.”

“Thank you, Mr. Winters,” Riley said. “Your recollection helps us more than you might realize. There’s just one more thing I need to ask you about.”

When he made no reply, she continued: “Mr. Winters, is there anyone still here in the Outer Banks area who knew Elaine really well? And Diana, too? Someone we might be able to talk to?”

There was another pause as Winters apparently considered the question—or perhaps was trying to decide whether to answer at all. It was as if time itself slowed, and in that silence, Riley found herself listening harder, senses straining for a clue, anything that might help break open their case.

“Yes, actually,” Winters finally said, his words coming through the speakerphone with an unexpected clarity. “My sister still lives there, in Teomoc. I hesitate to bring her into this, but if it might be of any help to you… well, she has an important position there in Teomoc and I hope you won’t disturb her any more than necessary.”

“We’ll take that into consideration,” Riley assured him.

“Well, then … her name is Sylvia Sitwell.”

Riley’s heartbeat quickened—a reaction she knew was mirrored by Ann Marie. She watched as Sheriff Beeler’s eyebrows rose, a silent admission of surprise breaking through his usual reserve.

“Thank you, Mr. Winters,” she said after a moment, her voice a low hum in the dimming room. “That’s very helpful. We may reach out to her for some insights.”

“Of course, I hope that will help,” he replied, though his confusion lingered.

Riley thanked Harry Winters again and then ended the call, the screen going dark as the connection severed. A soft sigh escaped her lips, unbidden but telling. She turned to face the ocean, seeing it not just as a vast expanse of water, but as a keeper of secrets, both long buried and freshly made.

Her colleagues waited for her to speak, to share conclusions. They all remembered talking to Sylvia Sitwell that morning. Riley had felt an immediate distrust for her. Her tight-lipped smile and guarded eyes had seemed like a simple fear of bad publicity for the resort area. They had not looked into her background, her family connections, at all.

Now, her hostile reaction was cast in a starkly different light. Riley reminded herself of her intuitive hit that the killer was a woman. Could this director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office, a woman who should have been no more than a footnote in their investigation, be the killer they were looking for?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rachel’s whole world was nothing but shadows and silence, a void where time and space had lost all meaning. She was barely aware of anything at all—and about to slip back into complete unconsciousness—when a sudden creaking sound followed by a soft thud brought her back from the brink. They were small noises that might have been ignored on any other day, but in this darkness, they were alarm bells ringing with a warning of danger. For some reason, her head ached terribly.

Her senses sharpened, but she could still see nothing. A primal instinct screamed to flee, to fight, but her body refused to obey. She tried to move, to stand, to flail out, but her limbs were not under her own control. Panic rose as Rachel realized that unseen restraints were holding her in place. She was too weak to struggle against the rope that give her no leeway to move.

Moving her head to one side and then another, she realized that something was wrapped across her eyes, a curtain drawn against whatever might be anywhere around her. And her mouth was covered by something thick and intrusive—a gag that muffled her voice, leaving only the taste of panic on her tongue. She could only breathe through her nose, which was free of whatever was blocking her mouth.

This was no dreaming nightmare. The binds that held her still and helpless were strong, with textures and odors and painful resistance when she struggled against them. Her blindness, her inability to move or call out, had been imposed on her by some cruel adversary.

Why? What was going to happen to her? The fear that gripped Rachel was like a living thing, coiling around her chest and threatening to crush her resolve. She fought for control over her racing thoughts.

Fragments of memory began to surface like flotsam after a shipwreck. They bobbed on the waves of her consciousness, elusive and fragmented. Each fleeting recollection was a piece to an unsolved puzzle, yet they slipped through her mental grasp when she tried to fit them together.

But beneath Rachel’s dread, there stirred a spark of defiance—a stubborn refusal to surrender to the terror of her predicament. She forced herself to breathe slowly, drawing air through the narrow passage left by the gag. Each inhale was a battle, each exhale a minor victory against the paralyzing fear.

She vaguely remembered being at a beachfront house, a scene that might have come straight from a glossy magazine. She had been doing her job, inspecting every corner of the luxurious house, ensuring that the views were unobstructed, that the wrap-around deck was clean, and the interior of the rental unit immaculate.

But Rachel couldn’t remember exactly what had happened there. It was like a pleasant movie had been interrupted and replaced by a horror story of some kind.

Then she wondered how much time had passed since then. Had anyone missed her yet? Would Grace, her boss, her friend, have noticed her absence by now?

In her mind’s eye, she saw Grace’s concerned face, the lines of worry that would crease her boss’s forehead when she failed to appear at their scheduled meeting. Would Grace suspect something amiss? Would she send someone to look for Rachel, or would she assume some mundane delay had kept her from her obligations? The thought of being forgotten, of languishing in this dark purgatory, spurred Rachel’s resolve. Someone had to be searching for her. Someone had to find her before it was too late.

The quiet around her was shattered by the sound of footsteps, each step amplifying her dread. Then she was aware of a presence halted beside her, someone looming over her. As she drew in a shaky breath, a cloth was slapped across her nose and a sickly-sweet odor wiped away her awareness completely.

When Rachel next clawed her way back to awareness, it felt like emerging from a deep, disorienting sleep. Her senses were dulled, but the reality of her situation cut through the haze with alarming clarity. Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, she was a prisoner to her unseen captor.

Her mind, though foggy, struggled again to think what could have happened to her. Vague memories slipped in and out of focus—whispers of fabric, the steady whirring of a sewing machine somewhere in the background. Was it a clue, or just an illusion?

Rachel told herself she needed to stay alert, to gather every shred of information she could. Someone might be coming for her. She had to be ready—or at least as ready as one could be, tied to a chair in the dark.

But then that sweet-smelling cloth covered her nose again. The fumes seeped into her nostrils, the chemical sweetness heralding the return of darkness. No struggle, no time to react—just the cruel snatching away of consciousness. Her mind fought against the dark tide, but the effort was futile; the drug pulled her down into the depths, away from answers that had seemed so agonizingly close.

Time lost meaning in Rachel’s world, marked only by the periods of forced unconsciousness that came with the sweet odor of chloroform. She sensed that hours were passing, but she had no idea how many. She also realized that her assailant was repeatedly coming and going, leaving her. Each return to consciousness was a small victory against the chemical-induced blackouts. But with each victory came the awareness of her predicament, and then darkness descended again.

She had barely reached consciousness again when she became aware of something different happening. She tensed. What was going on now?

A touch, light and unexpected, grazed her hair—then the cold snip of scissors sounded close to her ear.

Her captor was cutting her hair.

Long strands fell away, brushing against her skin, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. It was an intimate violation, one that brought a chill despite the warmth of the room. Rachel’s mind whirled with questions. What could be the purpose behind such a peculiar act?

As the scissors continued their grim work, she clung to the sound of each cut, trying to maintain a grip on reality. Fear twisted in her gut, but it was the confusion that gnawed at her most persistently. The methodical shearing felt like preparation, a step toward some unfathomable endgame. And yet, there was no insight, no glimmer of understanding in the darkness that enveloped her.

The snipping came to an abrupt halt.

The silence that followed was heavy, expectant. Rachel braced for the cloth, the familiar precursor to oblivion. But this time, a voice pierced through the fog.

“Hush,” it cooed, the tone soft, almost soothing. The voice was chillingly familiar, stirring embers of recognition in Rachel’s memory, but she couldn’t place it within the haze clouding her thoughts.

The air shifted, a new weight pressing close. Rachel’s breath hitched in her throat as anticipation curled around her senses. The scissors had ceased their cold dance against her scalp, and now silence loomed. She tensed, every muscle coiled, waiting.

“Soon you’ll be ready,” whispered a voice, soft as silk yet laced with an icy undercurrent. The words slithered into Rachel’s ears, a serpent’s hiss promising darkness. As the chloroform-soaked rag descended once more over her face, the cloying sweetness invaded her nostrils, a noxious perfume that spelled the end of consciousness.

But in those final moments, before the black tide washed over her, a spark ignited within the fog of her drugged mind. Her captor—the orchestrator of her nightmare—was not a stranger.

That voice. It belonged to someone she knew, someone woven into the fabric of her everyday life. It was intimate, familiar, remaining in her memory from countless conversations and shared confidences.

Rachel’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as the name hovered at the edge of her awareness. But before she could grasp this revelation, darkness dragged her down once more into its silent depths.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The day had faded into evening, the sky a canvas of deepening blues and grays as Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser pulled up to the Outer Banks Tourists Office. The building was quiet, but lights were still on inside.

“Looks like we’re just in time,” Beeler muttered to his two passengers, glancing at the sign that declared the office would close soon.

They all got out of the car and hurried up to the front door, which Riley was relieved to find still unlocked. Inside the building, the air was still heavy with the scent of polish and perfume, but the only person in sight was a young woman who was locking up drawers at the reception desk. Her movements suggested she was eager to end the workday. She barely glanced up at the visitors.

“We need to speak with Sylvia Sitwell,” Riley stated simply.

“The Director left early today—some personal business,” the receptionist replied. “I’m sorry, but we’re about to close up now.”

Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie, whose frown was a reflection of her own frustration. Time was slipping away from them—and with it, perhaps, vital clues.

“Could you call her for us?” Ann Marie’s voice chimed in, the cheerful tone making it sound like a reasonable request.

“She doesn’t like to be bothered after hours,” the receptionist said.

“Tell her Sheriff Beeler and his two FBI colleagues need to talk with her again tonight,” Riley said.

At that, the receptionist straightened up and took a look at the three of them. “Sheriff,” she acknowledged with a forced smile, “I hadn’t realized it was you standing there.”

With a sigh, the receptionist picked up the phone. Riley watched her closely, noting the subtle change in her demeanor when she relayed their message.

“Ms. Sitwell’s at home,” the receptionist informed them after ending the call, scribbling an address on a piece of paper and handing it over. “She’ll see you now if you go directly there.”

“Thank you,” Sheriff Beeler said gruffly, ushering Riley and Ann Marie back to the car. As they drove through the darkening streets, the town’s quaint houses flickered with the warm glow of lights coming on.

Ann Marie broke the silence, her voice low. “Riley, maybe your hunch is right. Maybe our killer really is a woman.”

Beeler glanced sideways at Riley, but he made no audible comment.

Riley told herself sternly that theories were one thing, but proving them was another. She was anxious about interviewing the Director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office again. When they’d been there earlier, she’d found Sitwell quite irritating, her priorities all wrong. But Riley knew that wasn’t a good excuse for suspicions.

The house at the address they’d been given was a modest two-story, its siding bleached by sun and salt. As they approached, the porch light flickered on, revealing a swing and potted plants that indicated domesticity rather than danger.

Sheriff Beeler led the way, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden steps. The doorbell’s chime sounded abrupt in the quiet evening air. Moments later, Sylvia Sitwell opened the door.

“Good evening,” she greeted them, though she looked a bit annoyed. “I hope you’re bringing me good news this time. I heard about an arrest down in Sandhaven. Does that mean you’ve caught the killer?”

“The investigation is still open,” the Sheriff told her. “Sorry about the hour, but my FBI companions have some questions they think you can help with.”

“But the media sounded like …”

“The media has probably got it wrong,” Beeler said, looking at Riley as a signal for her to go ahead with an explanation for their visit.

“We’re here to discuss the investigation,” Riley said tersely, stepping past the threshold. “We think you can help us wrap up some loose ends.”

The Director hesitated, then seemed to decide that she couldn’t refuse to talk with them.

As Sylvia ushered them into the living room, Riley saw that the Director’s house, though not sprawling in size, was a masterpiece of expert decoration. The walls were adorned with art that captured the eye, and the soft lighting created a warm and inviting ambiance. Every piece of furniture, from the plush sofas to the polished wooden tables, had been chosen with a discerning eye, contributing to a harmonious and sophisticated atmosphere.

Riley scanned the space discreetly, noting each closed door that might conceal a hostage. Nothing seemed odd or out of place, yet she knew that if Sylvia Sitwell was involved in Rachel’s abduction, no sign of that was likely to be visible.

“Please, sit down,” Sylvia offered, motioning toward the floral-patterned sofas. Sheriff Beeler sat down carefully as though he was afraid he might damage the decor. Ann Marie plopped onto the sofa, looking perfectly at home among the flowered cushions.

Riley remained standing, her gaze lingering on photographs on the mantle. Were these family people? Had any of them been involved in the deaths they were learning about?

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley asked, turning to watch the Director closely, “I spoke with Harry Winters today. You are his sister, aren’t you?”

Sylvia’s smile faltered, a subtle shift in her expression that didn’t go unnoticed. “Yes, I am. My maiden name was Winters. I’ve been divorced for several years, but I kept my married name because it was already well established in my career.”

“That’s why we’ve come to you. Perhaps you can help us.” Riley’s eyes stayed fixed on Sylvia, who took a chair and seemed to shrink slightly under the scrutiny.

“What can you tell me about Elaine Winters’ drowning?” Riley asked bluntly. She moved closer and took a seat where she could continue to watch the director closely.

Sylvia glanced away for a fraction of a second before meeting Riley’s gaze once more. “I remember it... when it happened … vividly,” she said, her voice a tremor in the still room. “It was such a … a tragic accident.” Her words stumbled out as if each one were a burden, heavy with memories.

Riley studied her, the subtle play of emotions across Sylvia’s features. She thought the uneasiness that rose with her mention of the past might indicate guilt — the kind of appraisal that might cement that theory in any investigator’s mind. Yet, something intangible was bothering Riley even as she formed her interview tactics.

“I can see that it affected you deeply,” Riley probed.

“Deeply doesn’t begin to cover it,” Sylvia replied, her eyes darkening with old pain. “Elaine was...” She trailed off, gathering herself. “She was family.”

“I understand,” Riley replied. She leaned forward, her elbows pressing into her knees as she looked Sylvia in the eye. “Ms. Sitwell,” she said, “we have reason to believe that someone is seeking vengeance for either Elaine Winters’s death or her stepdaughter’s.”

Sylvia blinked, her expression morphing from reluctant but courteous hostess to one of confusion. “Vengeance?” she echoed, her voice quivering. “I don’t understand. Elaine’s drowning was just a terrible accident. Even if someone thought of it differently, why would they try to avenge Elaine’s death after all these years? And Diana—well, whatever happened to cause her drowning, no one was to blame.”

Riley observed Sylvia’s reaction closely. There was genuine bewilderment in her tone, the look of a woman blindsided by an unexpected turn.

“Earlier today,” Riley reminded Sylvia Sitwell, “we showed you some photos of the victims.”

The woman nodded uncomfortably.

“I think it’s important we revisit them,” Riley said. She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the images of Julie Sternan and Billie Shearer posed on the beach. “Just look at their faces this time,” she instructed. “And the style of their hair.”

Sylvia eyed the crime scene photographs warily.

“Take a close look,” Riley urged, her own eyes fixed on Sylvia Sitwell’s face. “Do you see any resemblance between these victims and Elaine Winters?”

Sylvia’s response was slow, hesitant, as though she was trying to piece together a puzzle of her own. Then her audible gasp sliced through the tension in the room, and Riley watched the woman’s face crumple with sudden realization.

“I didn’t see it before,” Sylvia whispered, her voice trembling. “Elaine...” Her voice trailed off into silence. Then she pulled herself together and spoke clearly, “The two recent victims, they both resemble Elaine. How can that be?”

“They might have been selected for that exact reason,” Ann Marie said softly. “And then the haircuts …”

“How horrible,” Sylvia cried.

Riley’s gaze never wavered from Sylvia’s eyes, searching for the flicker of deceit or guilt. But there was none—only the dawning horror of recognition that painted genuine shock across the woman’s features. It was the look of someone who had unwittingly held a piece of the puzzle all along without knowing its significance.

Then Riley felt a mental shift, like a familiar door creaking open. She knew she was missing something crucial. It lay somewhere in the chasm between words she’d heard spoken and the silence that Rachel had left behind. It was close, so tantalizingly close that she could almost taste it.

As Sylvia wrestled with the connection of recent murders to Elaine’s long-past death, echoes of a different scene began to play in Riley’s mind … a memory from just a short time ago … snippets of conversation vying for dominance. Grace Mitchell’s face flashed through her internal vision, her voice coming through clearly: “Rachel is my right hand. I trust her, rely on her more than anyone else.” She had added with a pride that seemed genuine. “She’s never let me down.”

But those words clashed with another statement. “Rachel didn’t show up for our afternoon drinks,” Grace had said with a dismissive wave. “I assumed something came up unexpectedly and that she’d contact me later on.”

The contradiction nagged at Riley like a splinter under the skin. If Rachel Brennan was so dependable, why hadn’t she reached out if she was going to miss a meeting she’d agreed to? Wouldn’t a person who fit Grace’s glowing description be punctual, or at least considerate enough not to inconvenience others? Reliable people didn’t just change their plans and never bother to alert anyone who would be left sitting around alone waiting for them.

“Something doesn’t fit,” she whispered, barely audible.

“Agent Paige?” Sylvia’s voice was tentative, breaking through Riley’s thoughts.

“Sorry,” Riley said, her gaze snapping back to focus. “Just thinking out loud.” The room around them seemed to be waiting for whatever came next.

“Is everything alright, Agent Paige?” Sylvia asked, her eyes reflecting concern.

“It’s about reliability... and trust,” Riley replied cryptically, feeling the pieces of the puzzle nudging closer to alignment.

Sylvia’s innocence seemed clear to her now. But more importantly, perhaps she could be a bridge to the other side of this mystery. Riley leaned forward, her voice cutting through the silence that had fallen on the group gathered there.

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley said, with an intensity that demanded attention, “what can you tell us about Grace Mitchell?”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Riley’s question about Grace Mitchell lingered as Sylvia Sitwell’s living room grew silent. It was obvious that the Director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office was uncomfortable as her glance flitted from one of her visitors to the next—like a bird trapped in a net, seeking escape.

“I... I don’t know Grace Mitchell very well,” Sylvia stammered.

Both Sheriff Beeler and Ann Marie looked at Riley, waiting for her to manage the interrogation she’d started.

She spoke sharply, “Ms. Sitwell, I think we both know that’s not true. We don’t have time for games. Do you know Rachel Brennan?”

“Of course. She works for Sylvia.”

“She’s been abducted. Her very life is at stake.”

Riley watched beads of sweat gather at Sylvia’s temples, the moist dots betraying her feigned ignorance.

“Maybe... maybe I shouldn’t say anything more without my lawyer present,” Sylvia whispered, so faintly it was almost swallowed by the room’s silence.

Riley felt a flash of impatience. The patterns were coming together, revealing connections she had only sensed before. She had a momentary glimpse into the killer’s mind, images without words—ephemeral, but supporting her conviction that time was very tight now.

“Ms. Sitwell, we can’t wait for lawyers, and every second counts,” Riley said. “By impeding our investigation, you could be charged with obstruction of justice at the very least. Or your silence might lead to Rachel’s death. Is that what you want?”

Then Riley saw the subtle shift, the momentary lapse in the woman’s armor.

“Let me tell you what I think is going on here,” Riley said, leaning forward. “I believe that Grace Mitchell is actually Diana Winters. She didn’t drown all those years ago. Instead, she faked her own death. Am I on the right track, Ms. Sitwell?”

Riley held her breath, not allowing her gaze to waver from Sylvia’s face. The theory she’d just stated had formed from scattered pieces of evidence, the patterns and behaviors that she had long ago learned how to read during years of profiling, of diving into the darkest corners of a killer’s mind.

She waited for the tell, the crack in the armor, and it came — not as a shattering but as a hairline fracture spreading rapidly through glass.

Sylvia’s complexion drained of color, leaving her looking like a ghost of herself, a specter caught between two worlds. She slumped back into her chair, her posture deflating as if someone had let the air out of her defiance. “How... how did you know?” she whispered, disbelief painting her features in stark, vulnerable strokes.

Riley watched Sylvia closely, noting the surrender in her posture, the resignation in the lines of her face. Her own response was a silent gesture, a simple tilt of her head that urged Sylvia to continue.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sylvia seemed to reach some internal crossroads, her decision made clear by the steadying of her shoulders and the lift of her chin. The tension in the room was a tangible thing, like an electric current that hummed through the air, threatening to spark.

Her eyes were glazed with memories as she spoke, her hands knotted together in her lap. “For a long time, I believed Diana had drowned. But about ten years ago, a woman named Grace Mitchell moved to Darnley and set up a real estate business.”

Riley noted the tremble in Sylvia’s voice; it was the sound of walls crumbling, of the truth surfacing after years submerged in silence.

Sylvia’s gaze seemed to drift to a place far beyond the confines of the room. “The moment I saw her, I was struck by her resemblance to Diana. Of course, she had changed—she was no longer the teenage girl I remembered. Even so, there was something... familiar about her.”

Sylvia’s voice trailed off, and her pause gave way to a heavy silence. Riley watched the woman wrestle with her thoughts, her mind undoubtedly racing back through the decade of deception.

“At first, I dismissed it as my imagination playing tricks on me.” Sylvia’s tone held a hint of self-reproach, as if chastising herself for not seeing the signs earlier. “But I noticed how Grace seemed to go out of her way to avoid me.”

Sylvia swallowed hard and added, the words falling softly, “It was as if she was afraid I might recognize her.”

Beeler cleared his throat and when everyone looked at him he asked, “Nobody else noticed? No one recognized the woman as the girl who had lived here before?”

“This is a tourist area,” Sylvia replied. “People come and go. A few stay year-round, but they’re not often here for generations. I have reason, I guess, to be more aware than most of who comes and goes. Besides, she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She’d changed. I think she’d gone to a lot of trouble to change her appearance.”

“That makes sense,” Ann Marie commented.

“Please go ahead,” Riley told the Director.

“I couldn’t shake my suspicions,” Sylvia confessed. “So I confronted her.” Her voice took on a steel edge—a surprising firmness, given her earlier hesitance.

“I remember it clearly,” Sylvia began, her voice trembling. “I bumped into Grace at the grocery store. We were both reaching for the same apple, our hands brushing against each other. For a moment, our eyes met, and … I was almost sure of it.”

Riley leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. “And then?”

Sylvia swallowed hard, her hands wringing together in her lap. “A few days later, I decided to pay Grace a visit at her real estate office after closing hours. The more she denied it, the more convinced I became that Grace was actually Diana.” Sylvia’s words hung in the air, each syllable heavy with implication.

The room seemed to shrink as Sylvia’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, the atmosphere dense with revelation.

“Finally, she broke down and admitted the truth,” she said, the fight draining from her posture as she slumped back against her chair. Her eyes lost focus, as if looking back across the years to the moment of confession.

Riley felt a deepening understanding as Sylvia continued.

“Grace, or rather Diana, poured out her story to me one evening, the burden of her secret too much to bear alone any longer. She spoke of faking her drowning, an act born of desperation to wipe the slate clean, to rid herself of the guilt that gnawed at her soul following her stepmother’s death.”

Sylvia inhaled sharply.

“But as the years passed, she found she couldn’t truly escape her past.” Sylvia’s words were laced with a sorrowful empathy, recalling the torment of a woman haunted by her history. “She said she was drawn back to the Outer Banks,” Sylvia told Riley and her colleagues, “Diana sought to live out her days in penance, a self-imposed exile within the very community she had once fled.”

As Sylvia’s narrative wound down, a solemn silence cloaked the room. Riley could almost hear the cogs turning in Ann Marie and Sheriff Beeler’s minds as they considered what they’d just learned. Without words, they all arrived at a terrifying consensus: Elaine, who was in fact Diana, had been overtaken by a monstrous transformation. The guilt that once drove her into hiding had morphed into a grotesque compulsion to murder those resembling the woman she could never forget—her stepmother. And then, for some reason, to position them on the beach as though they were alive.

A cold shiver tingled down Riley’s spine as she pieced together the psychological puzzle. She recognized the shift from penance to predation. She could almost sense the tangled web of emotions that had snared Diana, turning inward pain outward.

Every move from this point on would have to be swift, precise, and without room for error. They needed to find Rachel before Diana’s demons claimed another victim. Riley could not—and would not—let that happen.

She glanced at Ann Marie, whose youthful face showed determination, and then at Sheriff Beeler, whose experience was invaluable in moments like this. Together, they formed a triad, each member crucial to the task ahead. Riley knew that their collective efforts were the only hope Rachel Brennan had left.

*

The cascade of water into the bathtub formed ripples that dispersed on the surface—a delicate artwork of light and shadow. The temperature had to be just so: not too hot, not too cold. Grace Mitchell’s hand hovered above the water before submerging to test its warmth, her skin prickling at the contact. She adjusted the faucet.

In the tub, with her head still above water, Rachel Brennan lay motionless. The soft rise and fall of her chest was the only sign of life beneath the gag and blindfold. Chloroform, Grace mused, offered a relief from conscious thought that she almost envied.

She also would have preferred to keep her captive alive longer, until the approach of dawn. But from her most recent encounter with Sheriff Beeler and the two FBI agents, she was afraid that time was running out, and she needed to move faster than she had before.

Memories swam up unbidden, clouding her thoughts like the mist in the room. She saw herself, a teenager full of fire and resentment, railing against her father’s new wife. She saw Elaine, with her gentle voice and patient smile, trying to breach the walls around a young girl’s wounded heart.

And then, the day had come that changed everything—the day Elaine drowned when they were swimming in the ocean together. Grace actually hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the whisper of doubt never left her. Could her teenage temper have somehow willed the tragedy?

The question had gnawed at her insides since that fateful day in 1985. And now, as she placed a tender hand on Rachel’s head, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was once again standing at the precipice of that long-ago moment, about to plunge back into the depths of her darkest day.

But perhaps this time, the ending would finally be different.

This was the culmination of a journey that had begun in the throes of a rebellious youth, a path marred by the jagged edges of bad decisions. Grace remembered the scorn she’d felt toward her stepmother, Elaine, the embodiment of unwanted change. Her teenage self couldn’t comprehend the need for a mother’s touch that wasn’t her own mother’s.

The image of Elaine, smiling serenely despite the storm of Grace’s tantrums, haunted her to this day. There had been love, she realized belatedly, but her recognition had come as Elaine slipped beneath the waves—an accident for which Grace blamed herself. The guilt had burrowed deep, festering into a wound that refused to heal, a constant reminder of a debt unpaid.

Surely, she could have done something to turn that history aside.

Grace Mitchell, once Diana Winters, had long since surrendered to the seductive call of the Outer Banks. For Grace, Darnley had become the start of a new life, and she crafted a new life from the ashes of her old one. Her days flowed in a steady rhythm: open houses, contracts, handshakes. Real estate was her redemption, a way to build something sturdy on a foundation of remorse.

In this quiet corner of the world, where the sea whispered secrets only she could hear, Grace remade herself. The mirror showed a successful businesswoman, poised and polished. But beneath the surface lay the fractured remains of a guilt-ridden soul. Every sale, every satisfied customer, felt like an atonement, a step toward settling the debt of a life taken too soon.

It wasn’t long before the lines blurred further. Walking through Darnley, Grace’s gaze would snag on strangers who bore a passing resemblance to Elaine. A certain angle of light, a familiar posture, and suddenly she was transported back to 1985, to the sun-drenched beaches and the heart-stopping moment when everything changed.

The burden of these visions pulled at Grace, unraveling the edges of her sanity. She fought to keep her composure, to maintain the identity of Grace Mitchell, but the ghost of Diana Winters whispered doubts. Each encounter with a woman who mirrored Elaine became a confrontation with her own haunted past, a reminder that some debts could never be fully repaid. These encounters climaxed when she became friends with Rachel Brennan, who looked more like Elaine than any of the others.

Grace picked up a swimsuit from the floor, admiring the fabric, tracing the bold patterns that she had sewn with meticulous care. This swimsuit, like the others, was an eerie homage to the past. How her stepmother had loved the vintage suits she kept in her store. She’d collected them, sold them to delighted customers, and delighted in wearing certain ones herself.

The memory of Julie’s lifeless body, clothed in turquoise retro attire, flashed before her eyes – a tableau that was both haunting and satisfying. Billie Shearer’s encounter had been similarly orchestrated. The neon pink one-piece and matching headband had transformed her into a vivid echo of Elaine.

But neither of them had fulfilled Grace’s desperate purpose.

She remembered positioning Billie’s body just so, the way Elaine would arch her back to catch the sun’s rays, basking in the attention that always seemed to find her. Standing over Billie, Grace felt as if she had captured a moment in time, a picture-perfect scene where Billie wasn’t Billie anymore; she was Elaine, immortalized in stillness, finally at rest.

These acts, these offerings to the restless spirit of Elaine, they were what Grace clung to. Surely if she got everything right, if the scene was perfect, then the death would be erased, as though life had never been lost beneath the waves. The swimsuits, the staged scenes by the water – they were supposed to be a path to redemption. If the pose and the attire was perfect, surely the death would cease to exist.

Grace looked down at Rachel lying there in the water, seeing not the woman who she had taken, but her stepmother Elaine. It was a delusion born of longing and loss, a desperate attempt to rewrite a past that refused to be forgotten. With a shaking hand, Grace reached out, tracing the line of Rachel’s jaw, feeling the echo of Elaine’s laughter in the silence between them. Rachel let out an unconscious moan.

“Shhh,” Grace cooed. “It’s almost over now,” she murmured. “And this time, maybe you won’t be lost to us.”

Grace allowed herself the fantasy that even though Rachel’s breath ceased, placing her on her comfortable beach chair could bring her back when a new day began. Then Elaine’s death would be ended, and so too would the guilt that had been with Diana/Grace for so long. After all, that was exactly what her stepmother would want. Although it hadn’t worked out that way yet, that could only be because she hadn’t gotten all the details right.

Her hands, those of Grace Mitchell, the successful realtor, the respected member of Darnley, shook as they cradled Rachel’s head. For a fleeting second, a flicker of doubt creased her brow. Was she truly the arbiter of Elaine’s will or merely a vessel for her own fragmented psyche?

In that moment, Grace felt the precarious balance between sanity and madness tip. She steeled herself against the uncertainty, the voice in her head growing insistent, commanding. It was Elaine’s tone, the way she imagined it would be—firm and decisive.

She leaned forward, her hands guiding Rachel’s head with a tenderness that belied the grim finality of her actions. Then, with a resolve that felt like slipping into a role she’d played too many times before, Grace submerged Rachel’s head beneath the surface of the water.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

When Sheriff Beeler’s car slid to a stop, its headlights illuminating Grace Mitchell’s home, Riley was relieved to see a vehicle parked in the driveway. If Grace was at home, if they didn’t have to spend time searching for her, they could still save a life tonight. An image of Rachel Brennan—alone, vulnerable—flashed behind Riley’s eyes.

As they all scrambled out and rushed to the front door, her hand brushed the gun at her hip, tracing the cool metal as if to remind herself of the reality they were about to face. Beeler’s knock resonated against the door's wood, hard and demanding.

“Grace Mitchell, this is Sheriff Beeler. We need to speak with you,” he called out, his voice carrying authority that demanded obedience.

Silence was the only reply.

“Ms. Mitchell, it’s Agent Esmer from the FBI. Please open the door,” Ann Marie tried, her voice strong. Again, there was no response. Not even the shuffle of movement sounded to suggest that their presence had been acknowledged.

Riley exchanged a glance with Beeler, her dark eyes reflecting her urgency. When she gave a firm nod, the sheriff stepped back and launched himself at the door. His considerable frame made the wood give way with a violent crack, splintering around the lock. The sound shattered the night’s stillness, a stark declaration of their intrusion.

As they crossed the threshold, Riley’s hand found her weapon with a swiftness borne from years of training and too many encounters that ended in darkness. Her eyes swept the entryway, scanning for threats, her mind already reaching out, trying to sense the killer’s presence. The domestic interior, a stark contrast to the scene she had prepared herself for, appeared to be a nicely arranged home.

“Clear,” Beeler murmured after checking the living room, his voice low, a testament to his experience. Ann Marie nodded, covering the kitchen, moving with quiet efficiency. Riley felt time slipping away from them; every corner and every closed door could mean life or death for Rachel Brennan.

Drowned in fresh water, she remembered.

“Find a bathroom,” she demanded.

Ann Marie opened a few doors and told her, “A half-bath, no tub.”

“Keep checking everything downstairs,” Riley hissed as she moved fast towards the staircase. At the top, the hallway stretched ominously, doors ajar, a bright light shining from one of them.

Riley approached, her pulse throbbing in her ears, and there lay the figure of Rachel Brennan—motionless in the bathtub, the water still draining out around her.

“I’ve found her!” Riley’s voice shattered the silence. “Call paramedics and backup! And keep looking for Grace Mitchell!” The urgency in her yell descended the staircase, seeking out Beeler and Ann Marie.

But is Rachel alive? she wondered.

*

Sheriff Smitty Beeler wasted no time obeying Agent Paige’s order. His hand hovered over his holster as the dispatcher’s voice crackled in his ear.

“Police and paramedics to Grace Mitchell's residence, stat,” he ordered, his tone clipped, adding the street address.

As Agent Paige’s footsteps echoed from upstairs, Beeler took a steadying breath and advanced through the living room.

The space was dimly lit, darkness pooling in the corners like secrets. Each step felt weighted, every sense strained for the telltale signs of danger. His eyes skimmed the surroundings – the mundane clutter of domestic life was now a potential hiding place for the unpredictable. And then, there it was: a flicker at the edge of his vision, subtle yet unmistakable.

Beeler turned towards the movement, but it was already too late. Grace Mitchell exploded from behind the plush fabric of a heavy curtain, her movements feral and charged with raw panic. With a swiftness that belied her elegantly disheveled appearance, she snatched Beeler’s weapon from its leather home.

“Grace!” Beeler’s voice was a calm command, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. “Think about what you’re doing.”

Her wild, desperate eyes locked onto his, holding him in a moment suspended between reason and disaster.

*

Riley saw that clothes clung to Rachel’s skin, soaked as if she’d been dragged through a storm. But she could see no rise and fall in the chest. A wet gag still covered the victim’s mouth, a blindfold hid her eyes. When Riley pulled off the gag, her breath caught at the sight of the blue tinge marring Rachel’s lips, the stillness that seemed to have claimed her.

Training kicked in. Her service weapon clicked back into its holster as she called on her strength to lift the woman from the tub and roll her face down onto the floor. Water ran out of Rachel’s open mouth, but there was no other motion.

Riley fell to her knees beside Rachel Brennan’s inert form and turned her over to face upward.

Riley’s fingers sought the pulse that should have been throbbing under Rachel’s jaw, but there was nothing. Leaning down, she listened for the breath that didn’t come, watched for motion in the chest that still lay distressingly still.

“It can’t be too late,” she muttered.

Interlacing her fingers, she positioned them over Rachel’s sternum and began compressions. Each push was a silent count, each count a hope that this would not be the end.

The cold bathroom tiles were hard, but Riley barely registered the discomfort. As she administered each life-giving press, a part of her mind darted to questions.

Where is Grace?

Is she watching from some dark corner?

Or has she gotten away from us?

Riley’s hands moved with a steadiness born from years of training, from too many scenes like this one. Each compression was a defiance, a refusal to let death claim another victim without a fight.

*

“Don’t move!” The command was sharp, slicing through the stillness of the living room. Sheriff Beeler saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his chest. Grace Mitchell’s hand trembled visibly as she held the weapon, her eyes darting with the frenzied light of a cornered animal. He thought she might fire the gun whether she intended to or not.

“Grace,” Beeler said, his voice calm in the storm of her panic. “Put the gun down. We can talk about this.”

He raised his hands slowly, showing her the palms. This wasn’t how he wanted it to go down – not with Grace Mitchell, not with anyone. Years on the job had taught him the value of words over weapons, and he clung to that value now as he faced the barrel of his own service pistol.

“You don’t understand,” Grace cried out, her voice quavering with an edge of hysteria. “None of you do!”

Beeler could see that Grace Mitchell was beyond reach, the name an ill-fitting mask for the woman who had been Diana Winters in another life. The gun still in her hand, she edged away from him, backward toward the front door. He could see in her posture, hear in her voice – she was a tempest of fear and accusation, a soul lost in the eye of her own storm.

Stay calm, keep talking. He knew the stakes.

“Talk to me, Grace,” Beeler urged, keeping his tone even, struggling to bridge the gulf between them.

*

Ann Marie’s heart pounded against her ribcage, a metronome of fear and adrenaline as she burst into the dimly lit living room. She had been checking the deck when she heard voices that drew her back inside.

Her eyes locked onto the scene unfolding before her—Grace Mitchell, the elegance of her attire at odds with the desperation in her eyes, was holding Sheriff Beeler at gunpoint.

“Stay back!” Grace’s voice was a venomous hiss, slashing through the tension like a sharp blade. Ann Marie’s muscles tensed, ready to spring into action, but her training held her in place. “I’m leaving, and neither of you is going to stop me.”

Grace moved toward the broken front door without diverting the gun from its target. Ann Marie could only watch, her breath caught in her throat, as the woman began to retreat with careful steps.

Suddenly, the night was shattered by the wail of police sirens; red and blue lights sliced through the darkness outside, painting the porch in surreal hues as cars skidded to a halt, tires screeching. An ambulance joined the chorus, its presence an ominous portent. Silhouetted against the pulsating glow, Grace’s figure took on an ethereal quality, as if she were a specter caught between worlds.

Her eyes widened, the whites stark in the strobe of emergency lights. Her hand, once steady, now trembled, making the gun seem even more threatening. Ann Marie’s breath hitched; she knew this scene all too well—the moment when life teetered on the edge of a knife, when a single heartbeat could mean salvation or ruin. She saw it in Grace’s eyes, the glint of someone cornered, wild with fear and capable of anything.

“Suicide by cop” whispered through her mind. It was a path she’d learned of in somber academy lectures, a tragic outcome that seemed to hover over Grace now. In the cold embrace of the night, with lives balancing on a razor’s edge, Ann Marie Esmer was aware that the next words spoken might tip the scales irrevocably. From her upbringing in a mortuary, she knew the value of a gentle touch, the power of quiet assurance amidst the storm of grief. It was a skill honed beside caskets and whispered over condolence books.

“Grace,” Ann Marie said, her voice soft in the tense air, “I understand you’re scared. I see you’re hurting.” She took a careful step forward, her hands open and non-threatening. “But this—this moment right here—is not the end of your story.”

Grace’s breath hitched, the gun’s tremble growing more pronounced.

“Your life is precious, Grace. And I believe in second chances,” Ann Marie continued, her tone soft but resolute. “Let us help you find a way back. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Grace’s hand lowered ever so slightly, the lethal dance of the gun slowing as Ann Marie’s words seemed to reach something buried deep within the woman before her.

“Think of the people who care about you,” Ann Marie pressed on. “There’s a path forward, Grace. You can choose it.”

For a moment, Grace’s eyes flickered with doubt, then with a clarity that spoke volumes, her decision was made visible in the slackening grip on the weapon. With a shuddering exhale, the gun clattered onto the wooden boards of the porch, its echo a testament to the fragile victory wrought by words and understanding.

Ann Marie’s breath released, relief flooding her senses.

Beeler moved in, his seasoned instincts kicking into gear. He secured the firearm, while Ann Marie stepped closer to Grace, her hands gently grasping the woman’s arms.

“Grace Mitchell, you are under arrest,” Ann Marie declared. She felt Beeler’s presence behind her, a solid reassurance as they guided Grace down the steps, away from the edge of no return.

The flashing lights played over their figures as Grace was led to the waiting vehicle. Ann Marie’s heartbeat finally slowed, the adrenaline receding like a tide going out, leaving behind the sands of reality.

“Upstairs,” Beeler commanded the ambulance team as they piled out of their vehicle.

*

Riley knelt on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, her hands steady as she administered chest compressions to the victim lying before her. A silent mantra ticked through her mind with each push — Stay with me — a rhythm punctuated by the faint echo of her own breathing. The woman’s chest rose and fell under Riley’s force, a battle against the grip of death that dared to claim another soul.

“Come on,” Riley urged, her voice gruff with determination. She paused, searching for the pulse at the woman’s neck, hoping for any sign of life. Then, a cough shattered the stillness, rough and wet, like the first gasp of air after emerging from underwater. The victim’s eyes fluttered, confusion and fear in their depths as she sputtered, trying to expel the shadows that clung to her consciousness.

Relief surged through Riley, but she didn’t let it soften her focus. She had been through too much, seen too many false hopes snuffed out.

“That’s it, keep breathing,” she coaxed, her tone softer now.

She’d heard the sound of help arriving and no indication of a gunfight. Surely if she could just hold on …

The sound of footsteps clattered on the stairs, multiplying. Riley’s head snapped up, dark hair framing her face, eyes scanning the entrance.

“In here! Help!” she called out, her voice cutting through the clamor.

Paramedics burst into the room, a flurry of uniforms and medical equipment. They moved with professional urgency, crowding around the victim as Riley stepped back, giving them space. She watched as they assessed the woman, tubes and monitors quickly deployed in practiced emergency care.

Riley felt a twinge of warmth for the victim, whose life had nearly slipped away in this impersonal space. Her job was done — for now. Riley knew the work would begin again once the victim spoke, once she could piece together the fragments of this mystery that had nearly ended with one more body to count.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Riley turned the key in the lock of her townhouse and pushed open the door, she heard the sounds of laughter and chatter. Her eyes lit up as she spotted April and Jilly sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by textbooks, animatedly discussing something that had both of them giggling.

“Mom’s home!” Jilly called out.

April looked up, her smile an echo of Riley’s own. “Hey, Mom,” she said, her expression relaxed, content. The whole family was back together, with April at home from college for the weekend.

In the kitchen, Gabriela was humming softly, the rich aromas of dinner wafting through the air. Riley shed her jacket, a symbolic gesture of leaving her other life at the door, and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the normalcy that had become such a rare luxury.

Stepping out onto the back porch, Riley found Bill settled into one of the wicker chairs, a glass of iced tea in his hand. The sight of him, so familiar yet still able to stir something deep within her, brought a sense of calm after the chaos of the case she and Ann Marie had closed the day before.

“Looks like we’ve got the whole gang here tonight,” Bill remarked, his voice tinged with a warmth that always seemed reserved just for her.

“Seems so,” Riley replied, accepting the glass of tea he offered her. She took a sip, relishing the coolness against her lips as she settled into the chair beside him. The porch became their sanctuary, a place where the weight of their shared past could be set aside, if only for a moment.

“How was your day?” Bill asked, his gaze steady on hers.

“Ordinary,” Riley admitted, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. There was comfort in the mundane routine of teaching, a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled world of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. She enjoyed giving her lectures and the eager faces of her students, but the simplicity of it all felt worlds away from the twisted mind of the murderer she’d faced alongside Ann Marie.

The conversation lulled, the clinking of ice against glass punctuating the quiet as they both leaned back, letting the serenity of the setting sun envelop them.

Riley watched a leaf break free from its branch, spiraling down to the earth, as if surrendering to the fact that it was turning fall now and colder days were coming. Although Riley’s day had indeed been ordinary, beneath the surface, something was bothering her.

“Bill,” she said, her voice a quiet, “today was... good. But there’s something I haven’t told you about the case.”

“Go on,” he encouraged softly, looking over at her in concern.

Riley took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “I made a mistake. A big one. For a moment, my instincts failed me. I almost let it cost someone their life.”

Bill set his drink aside, his attention undivided. “You’re one of the best agents I’ve ever known. We all make mistakes, Riley. I’ve made more than my share.”

“I know,” she replied. “It’s just that... this wasn’t like me, Bill. At least, not like the agent I used to be.”

The silence lingered, as if giving space to Riley’s troubled thoughts. She could feel Bill’s gaze, unwavering and filled with an understanding that only years of shared darkness could forge.

“I got the sense that the killer was a woman, and that part was right. But I suspected the wrong one.”

Bill made no comment, so she continued.

“She was so kind, so considerate, and she seemed as traumatized as anyone about the murders. I looked right into her eyes and missed it. I sympathized with her. I never even considered the possibility that she was our killer.”

She swallowed down a knot of anxiety.

“I thought it was a different woman. She seemed guilty. Everything seemed to point to her—until it didn’t.” She shook her head, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping her lips. “I was so sure, Bill. But I was letting the fact that I didn’t like her override my better instincts.”

The memory of it was sharp, the realization that she had pursued the wrong woman, that Rachel Brennan’s life had been in danger because of her error.

“The real killer, Grace Mitchell, was clever, hiding her true identity right there in plain sight, and with such convincing charm and goodwill. By the time I put the pieces together, it was almost too late.” Riley’s grip tightened on her glass; she could still feel the urgency of that moment, the fear that she wouldn’t reach Rachel in time.

“‘Almost’ doesn’t count, Riley,” Bill said, reaching out to place a reassuring hand over hers. “You did save her. That’s what matters.”

“But would I have missed it back in the days when I was still full-time in the field?” Riley mused aloud, her dark hair touched by gray swaying lightly in the evening breeze. “Is this what happens when you step away? Do you lose your edge? I guess it doesn’t matter if I’m retired from field work, but even so …”

Bill’s silence was an answer she wasn’t ready to hear. They sat there quietly together, but Riley’s mind was churning. Then Bill broke the silence with his steady voice.

“Maybe you do need to get back out there. You have this unique ability to see things others don’t, Riley. Even I don’t understand exactly how that works, but I do know that it’s too rare, too valuable, to risk losing.”

“Teaching has been my commitment for a year now,” she replied. “I’ve spent so much time and energy building that part of my life. And, of course, it has given me more time here at home.”

Bill leaned forward and gave her a look that was equal parts challenge and encouragement. “What did you lecture about today?”

The question caught her off guard. “The case,” she admitted, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks. “I used it as an example for my students—how investigations can take unexpected turns.”

“See?” Bill flashed a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s proof right there. Teaching and field work—they’re not mutually exclusive. One informs the other. Continuing to work cases will only sharpen your skills in the classroom.”

She spent a few moments considering Bill’s words. There was a quiet comfort in their shared understanding, in the way he always seemed to know just what to say to nudge her past her hesitations.

“You’re encouraging me to straddle both worlds,” she murmured.

“Isn’t that where you excel?” He reached for his drink, then continued. “I don’t see any reason to confine your unusual insights to just one aspect of your life. That kind of skill is also something that students need to see at work as it happens. Who else can help them best develop their own potentials — whatever they might be?”

She studied his face, seeing the unwavering belief he had in her range of abilities. It was a belief she sometimes struggled to share, but in moments like this, his support buoyed her.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It felt good to be understood, to have someone in her corner who saw her potential as limitless.

“You’re right, I can handle both,” she announced with newfound resolve. “First thing next week, I’m going to ask Brent Meredith to keep assigning me to occasional field cases.”

*

Leo Dillard’s fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the surface of his desk, the only movement in the otherwise still room. His apartment was shrouded in darkness except for the pale glow of a desk lamp pooling light onto the array of papers spread before him. The quiet hum of the city outside his window did nothing to relieve his solitude.

As he went over each documented detail about Riley’s family, he imagined her in her own home, warm and filled with a family that he observed but could never be part of. He could, however, learn their movements, their habits, their weaknesses.

Leo’s eyes lingered on a printout detailing April’s college schedule at Jefferson Bell University, every class and professor noted with care. He had already established a presence there, one that offered a wide range of possibilities.

On another page, Bill’s routines were laid out in neat bullet points, the predictability fueling Leo’s sense of control. The young one, Jilly, was easy to track through the high school calendar, and now he just had to record her after-school activities.

These preliminary notes were just the beginning, a foundation upon which Leo intended to build his masterpiece. It wasn’t the schedules or the routines that enthralled him; it was the challenge of getting inside someone’s head, understanding the cogs and wheels of their inner workings.

Riley Paige had taught him well, especially her lectures on the human psyche.

Each family member had become a subject for Leo, a case study to dissect and analyze. He pondered April’s youthful optimism, how it might be twisted by fear. Jilly’s innocence, a canvas waiting to be stained. And Bill, a pillar of strength that could be eroded with doubt. These profiles were the keys to unraveling Riley’s life, thread by thread.

He lingered a moment on the edge of April’s file before he closed it with a decisive snap. The dim light from the solitary desk lamp cast long shadows across his face, as if to underscore the duality of his intentions. He pulled a fresh notebook towards him, the spine cracking faintly as he opened it to the first blank page. This was more than a new chapter; it was a pivot point in his meticulous game.

The silence of the apartment wrapped around Leo like a cloak as he paused in his writing, reflecting on the path laid out before him. His gaze drifted momentarily to the window, where the city’s pulse twinkled distantly, oblivious to the drama unfolding within these walls. Then, back to the task at hand. He flipped through the notebook, reviewing the steps he’d delineated.

Leo’s plan was still a work in progress. Just determining a course of action required patience, a slow build-up that would tighten the screws of tension without release. He sketched out scenarios, branching possibilities that accounted for various reactions. Each hypothetical situation was crafted to push and prod at Riley’s vulnerabilities, to exploit the cracks in her armor. He imagined her trying to piece together the puzzle, always two steps behind, her instincts ensnared by the web he was weaving.

“Anticipation,” he murmured to himself, “is as potent a tool as action.” He savored the word, letting its meaning permeate his senses. For Leo, anticipation was the undercurrent that would erode Riley’s composure, an invisible force that would chip away at her family’s security.

Now was the time for subtlety, for planting seeds that would blossom into chaos at just the right moment. And then…

Leo felt a rush of pleasure at what he anticipated lay ahead.

NOW AVAILABLE!

ONCE BROKEN

(A Riley Paige Mystery—Book 20)

When Hollywood's vintage glamour turns grisly, FBI Agent Riley Paige finds herself chasing a killer whose blueprint for murder is drawn from iconic movie scenes. With each clue steeped in cinematic lore, Riley must cast herself in the role of hero in this twisted thriller before the final credits roll.

 “A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

—Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Once Gone)

ONCE BROKEN is book #20 in the bestselling Riley Paige mystery series, which begins with the #1 bestseller ONCE GONE (Book #1)—a free download with over 1,000 five star reviews!

A gripping and intense psychological suspense thriller featuring an astute yet anguished female protagonist, the RILEY PAIGE series is a compelling mystery filled with continuous action, edge-of-your-seat suspense, unexpected plot twists, and shocking discoveries. Its rapid-fire tempo ensures an addictive read that's hard to put down, inviting readers to immerse themselves well past bedtime. Fans of Lee Child, Robert Dugoni, and Rachel Caine are sure to fall in love.

Future books in this series are now available!

“An edge of your seat thriller in a new series that keeps you turning pages! ...So many twists, turns and red herrings… I can't wait to see what happens next.”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A strong, complex story about two FBI agents trying to stop a serial killer. If you want an author to capture your attention and have you guessing, yet trying to put the pieces together, Pierce is your author!”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A typical Blake Pierce twisting, turning, roller coaster ride suspense thriller. Will have you turning the pages to the last sentence of the last chapter!!!”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Right from the start we have an unusual protagonist that I haven't seen done in this genre before. The action is nonstop… A very atmospheric novel that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours.”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Everything that I look for in a book… a great plot, interesting characters, and grabs your interest right away. The book moves along at a breakneck pace and stays that way until the end. Now on go I to book two!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

“Exciting, heart pounding, edge of your seat book… a must read for mystery and suspense readers!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

ONCE BROKEN

(A Riley Paige Mystery—Book 20)

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Jenna Graves, Alison Payne, Isla Rivers and Kari Blackhorse series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE